Who?

"Every cop has a weakness; you just gotta know how to exploit it. They think they're so smart, they treat you like you're an imbecile. If you're not careful you'll start to believe 'em. It's a game for them - they get off on it. They've got these huge egos. That's the biggest problem. All you've gotta do is let them know who's in charge. Not them; you! They used to call FBI agents gangsters with badges, one step away from being the worst criminals in society. Joad's like that. Big time"

"Who Joad?"

"Big jar-head detective"

"You know Joad?"

"I do. And he knows me too. He's been thinking about me for a long time. He'll try to hang you with your own words, catch you in a lie. You're dead once that happens"

"So whatdoya tell 'im"

"The truth will set you free"

The cell door clanked open to reveal Detective Joad's right hand man- Detective Moniske. A wiry, greasy, mid-aged man who yielded an odour of expensive cigars and brandy, a scent that reminded me of the seedy bars back home in St Petersburg. Yet this man was not Russian, not congenial. His sly smile widened as he stepped forward to join me in the cell. It was dark, probably 2100 hours. The dim lights trickled from the exterior corridor, throwing jagged shadows on Moniske's angular face.

"Mr Titov, lets get you set up in more hospitable surroundings." he whispered with an air of arrogance.

I did not retort, merly regained whistling 'God save the Queen'.

----------------------------------

"Ok. Have a seat. Thought this would be a little more comfortable"

Moniske thrust me onto the metal seat, the corner of the table in front jabbing my thigh. My surroundings were nothing to be admired. I knew that the concrete walls, the fluorescent lights, the grated windows and the reflective glass (that was actually a 2 way mirror), were welcoming me home, as long lost company from decades ago.

"You all'right there Mr Titov?"

"I'm fine"

"You sure you don't want an attorney?" 

"I'm sure" 

Same process as usual. Take nothing. Give nothing.

"Ok, we're gonna start in a few minutes when the case detective gets here. In the meantime, you can relax"

In Moniskes' mind 'Relax' translated into 'accidently reveal information that could incarcerate you'. I would not fall for his ploy. 

"D'you want anything? A soda? A coffee? Hey you wanna look at the sports section, we might be here a bit?" 

The flurencent light flickered, momentarily casting the room into complete darkness. Buzzing brought it back to life, yet slight flickering persisted. Moniske took no notice and continued.

"I was never much into sports. My highschool basketball coach said I looked like a retarded Gazelle with a spastic disorder. Mr Daley, real loving guy. You look like you're in pretty good shape. You work out, Mr Titov?" 

I ignored him, leaning my head onto the back of the metal chair, closing my eyes hoping for some peace. Yet, he continued rambling.

"I'm thinking about getting a trainer myself, you know, bulk it up a little bit. I think it might help me with the ladies. Is that why you work out?"

Predicting that I would not respond, Moniske fluffed around with the paper, flicking between section. It was though he was intentionally trying to be loud. 

"Classifieds!...Single white male. Wanted for my wife's playmate. Preferred - he who enjoys pleasure mixed with pain. I get to watch. This could evolve into something meaningful for you" 

He chuckled as he put the paper down, lifting his head to smirk at me. Just as I remember. The true Moniske. Chauvinist, cologne drowned and horny. Looked like he wasn't getting any. I pitied the next woman who fell into his sickening trap.

"Didn't somebody tell me you lived in California for a while?"

The lights flicked again, resurrecting the moments of darkness. Moniske stooped out of his chair and walked towards the light switch. He flicked it. The buzzing continued.