As I stepped in to the lobby of the hotel, my heart was racing, the trepidation almost overwhelming. I was here to meet Vic Malone, New York’s super-cop; a man with an unflinching and relentless adherence to justice; an urban hero of mythical proportions. The only man ever to eat a serial killer.
But I wasn’t interested in a puff-piece. I wanted to meet the real Vic Malone, not the icon.
My jaw dropped as he strode in though, dragging a bruised and broken criminal by the hair, a trail of blood streaking along the marble floor. The manly man (there’s no other way to describe Vic Malone) tossed the “scumbag” into a garbage can and dropped some cuffs on his chest.
“Arrest yourself,” he growled.
I held out my hand to greet him, amazed to see it trembling. Vic ignored it as he straddled himself into a chair and wrapped his lips round the shaft of a Camel. I meekly informed him this hotel was no-smoking.
“Bite me,” he said as he exhaled a thick plume of smoke. The manager strode over, but turned on his heels the moment he spied the familiar thick jawline. Vic Malone is known round these parts.
“What did he do?” I asked, gesturing at the semi-conscious criminal.
“Crime,” he shrugged, knowing this answer should be enough.
“Did he deserve a beating?”
“He was loitering with intent,” Vic snarled. “For all I know I just stopped him murdering an old lady.”
“Don’t talk to me about justice,” he spat. “The last time someone pleaded the fifth, I impaled him on the Chrysler building.”
It’s true. Vic Malone isn’t one for hyperbole. He probably couldn’t even spell it.
“I’m not one for hyperbole,” he chewed the Camel’s tip, “I can’t even spell it.”
Vic Malone always speaks his mind.
“I always speak my mind.”
“Some people might say you’re dangerous. The anti-thesis of everything you claim to stand for.”
“What people?” he growled, “Criminals get what’s coming to them when Vic’s on the beat. I’m sick of them claiming human rights. They’re scum. They need to be dealt with properly, not given state mandated hand jobs by licensed hookers.”
“Is that true,” I almost scoff, then immediately regret it as he fixes me with a steely glare.
“The crime rate halves when I’m on shift. I’m so good at being a cop, they pay me twice. Now, this interview’s over.”
With that, he swept towards the exit, stopping only to arrest someone he suspected of being a pimp.