Brad Parks: The Good Cop

“I told you they were bad men, but did you listen? Noooo, of course not,” Bernie said, doing a dismissive shooing wave. “You had to be Clint Eastwood, huh? You’re lucky Gene had that Best Buy receipt to do. Otherwise, we might have gone home and you’d be kaput.”

“That’s Yiddish for-” Gene started

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t need the translation this time. Thanks, Gene,” I said. “So, wait, you guys are the one who called this in?”

“I was doing the receipt,” Gene said. “Bernie was watching the camera and-”

“Tut, tut, tut, he doesn’t need all the details,” Bernie interrupted. “Geez, Gene, someone asks you for directions and you pave a damn road for them.”

“But,” I stammered, “but how do you guys know ATF agents?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, kid: in this business, you gotta know everyone ,” Bernie said.

“I don’t know what to … I mean, thank you.”

I reached my hand out and clapped Bernie’s shoulder. “You’re lucky you had the Ginsburg boy with you,” he said. “If it’s just you, a goy? Well, maybe I call, maybe I don’t. But nobody messes with a member of the tribe on my watch.”

“We would have called anyway,” Gene assured me.

“Anyhow, enough of that,” Bernie said, then fixed me with a look of genuine concern. “You chilly? You look chilly, scuffling around without a coat on. You’ll catch the death of you from cold. Lucky for you, I got coats. I got in a London Fog the other day-just your size, too. Forty-two long, am I right? What do you say? London Fog makes a good coat, you know, and Uncle Bernie gives you only the best. The best, I tell you.”