Free The Devil's Bag Man by Adam Mansbach

was a lot of estrogen whipping around, a lot of emotional updrafts and downswings. More than he could keep track of, for sure.
    He parked the cruiser in his reserved space, made for the front door. He swung it open and tamped down the irrational, guilty feeling that he was sneaking in late. Starting at noon just felt wrong. It threw off his rhythms, made him feel like he was playing catch-up all day. Robbed him of his morning rituals.
    Like feeling his office heat up. By this time of day, it had already completed the transformation into a sweltering, fetid armpit. Where was the sport in that?
    And when the hell were you supposed to eat lunch on a noon to eight? An hour after you got to work? At three? Were you supposed to eat two meals on the clock? Starve yourself, then strap on the feedbag for an early dinner?
    First-world problems, Nichols .
    Use ’em to block out what’s underneath, long as you can .
    He grabbed the stack of paperwork waiting for him on the department secretary’s desk—Maggie was already out to lunch herself, no fool she—walked into the Armpit, and turned on the Eisenhower-administration fan. He’d stopped for an iced Dunkins on the way, despite the pot of coffee he’d already poured down his throat at home. Sheer force of habit. He plunked it down on the desk with a reproachful glance, unable to even take a sip, and took a baleful look around.
    This room, and the job he did in it, represented the only continuity Nichols had left.
    Sure, you’ve got a brand-new house and a brand-new lady friend and a brand-new sense of existential dread, but hey, at least the wood paneling and the smell of mold remain the same .
    Talk about cold comfort.
    At least something was cold.
    He drummed his fingers atop the paperwork, not ready to slog through it yet, and felt a familiar restlessness creep though his muscles, a desire to move just for the sake of moving, the desk like a ball and chain around his leg.
    Get out there and do some good —that was the self-exculpating, rah-rah version.
    Went down a lot easier than I can’t sit here with myself or I’ll go nuts .
    Protect and Serve, motherfuckers.
    He called the rookie’s name, hoping maybe something had happened out in the world that required sheriffly attention. Anything major, and he’d have gotten a call; the deputies weren’t shy about interrupting Nichols’s off-time, passing the buck to the buck-stopper. But a man could dream, couldn’t he?
    â€œBoggs.”
    â€œYessir?” Boggs called back, from his cubicle in the big room, not even standing up.
    What was it with these kids, and their willingness to conduct a conversation through multiple walls? Sherry was the same way. Nichols ran the numbers, realized that Russell Boggs was probably six years older than her and nearly two dozen younger than himself.
    The fact that it keeps surprising you how old you are, you know what that is?
    Proof of how fucking old you are .
    â€œC’mere, dammit!”
    Boggs appeared at the threshold a few seconds later, a rangy kid with curly brown hair and arms 25 percent longer than seemed necessary. He was a little doofy, but he had the makings of a solid cop— good bones , as they always said about a house they were about to gut-renovate on those design shows Cantwell sometimes watched.
    Nichols shook his head, playing at fatherly rebuke. “What do you think, I wanna talk to you across the whole office?”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œDon’t be sorry. What’s new? All quiet this morning?”
    Boggs shrugged, helped himself to a seat across the desk. “Pretty much. Had a B&E call over on the east side around seven. Lady woke up and found her kitchen door pried open—with a screwdriver, it looked like—and some cash and small electronics gone. But her son’s a meth-head, and she kicked him out last week, so . . .” He shrugged again. “All in the family,