Leonard drove an old Crown Vic that he seemed to think was some souped-up shit and drove accordingly, siren playing, said, “Man, I never tire of this shit.”

The crime scene was a blitzkrieg of cops, civilians, CSI, more cops.

Joe was brought up to speed by the on-site guy who said, “We’re hearing PIMP.”

Joe looked over a heap of bodies, asked, “A pimp took out all these guys?”

The guy shook his head, explained. “It’s a drug. The new kid on the block—well, all over. PIMP is the new drug of choice for the five boroughs.”

Joe watched as Leonard ambled over to a basketball court and shot the breeze with the kids gathered there, then walked quickly back, said, “Joe, how you feel about hitting Williamsburg?”

“Why, you run out of wool caps and funny glasses?”

“Got a whisper a dealer is on the corner there, with all the PIMP you can handle.”

They blasted over there, scooped up the dealer who was indeed on the corner as reported. Leonard, no frills, picked the kid up, threw him in the back, the kid going, “The fuck, yo?”

Drove to a quiet alley and shook out the kid’s cargo pants, packets of dope spilling on the ground, the kid shouting, “Not mine, ain’t never seen this shit before.”

Leonard made sure no iPhones were around, then gave a slap to the side of the kid’s head, not hard but sufficient.

Joe grabbed the kid, shoved him against the Vic, said, “If you want to walk from this, tell us who the main guy is.”

The kid, already street legal, said, “Might need that in writing, mothafucka.”

Leonard said, “Of course.” Kneed him in the balls, said, “Can you read the small print…?”