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Anyone who challenges you deserves to die is battlefield bullshit, not a way to live.
“Are you volunteering to be our policeman?” “I thought I was bait.” “You could be both.” “I never volunteer for anything. Soldier’s basic rule.”
I said, “I’m going to London now.” O’Day said, “Now?” “I don’t mind about the picture in his bedroom. I don’t even mind that the little runt just took a shot at me. That’s an occupational hazard, for a cop. But he was careless and he missed. He shouldn’t have tried on a windy day. He killed an innocent man. That’s different. That was a mistake. And like you said, I caught him once. I can catch him again.” “And then what?” “I’m going to twist his arm out of his shoulder socket and beat him to death with his own right hand.”
“Stupidity isn’t a capital crime. And there’s no death penalty here, anyway.” “There is now.”
Every man for himself. Which suited me fine. Two against one is never a problem, but no one likes to work harder than he needs to.
“No one messes with me.” “As statements go, that’s not entirely accurate, is it? I’m already messing with you. And I’m going to keep on messing with you, until you cut Kott and Carson loose. Your choice, pal.” “You’re a dead man.” “You said that already. Wishing doesn’t make it so.”
“Hope for the best, plan for the worst.” “Which is it going to be?” “It’s going to be the same thing it always is.” “Which is what?” “Somewhere in between.”
My mother had rules about fights. She was raising two sons on Marine bases, so she couldn’t ban them altogether. But she hedged them around with restrictions. The first rule was strictly practical. Don’t fight when you’re wearing new clothes. Which I was, ironically. The second rule could be viewed as ethical or moral, but to my mother it was simply correct, which was a whole other word in French. The second rule was never start a fight. But the third rule was never lose one, either.

