Byrne considered wearing a shirt and tie, but decided against it. The less attention he called to himself in the places he had to go, the better. On the other hand, he wasn't quite the imposing figure he once was. And maybe that was a good thing. Tonight he needed to be small. Tonight he needed to be one of them.
When you're a cop, there are only two types of people in the world. Knuckleheads and cops. Them and us.
The thought made him consider the question. Again.
Could he really retire? Could he really become one of them? In a few years, when the older cops he knew had retired, and he got pulled over, they really wouldn't know him. He'd be a just another knucklehead. He'd tell the scrub who he was, and where he'd worked, and some stupid story about the job; he'd flash his retirement ID and the kid would let him go.
But he wouldn't be inside. Being inside meant everything. Not just the respect, or the authority, but the juice. He thought he had made the decision. Obviously he wasn't ready.
He decided on a black dress shirt and black jeans. He was surprised to find that his black peg-legged Levi's fit him again. Perhaps there was an upside to being shot in the head. You lose weight. Maybe he'd write a book: The Attempted Murder Diet.
He had made it through most of the day without his cane-having steeled himself with pride and Vicodin-and he considered not bringing it with him now, but soon banished the thought. How was he supposed to get around without it? Face it, Kevin. You need a cane to walk. Besides, maybe he would appear weak, and that was probably a good thing.
On the other hand, a cane might make him more memorable, and that was something he didn't want. He had no idea what they might find this night.
Oh, yeah. I remember him. Big guy. Walked with a limp. That's the guy, Your Honor.
He took the cane.
He also took his weapon.