Jazz cops. Heavyset men behind leathery faces. Faces that have seen better days. Skin like a worn-out brown shoe.
Jazz cops. Murder mystery loves company.
Jazz cops. Police the roads. Banging out a heavy downbeat. Collecting in back alleys and empty parking lots. Always in twos and threes. Stocky bowling pins of pent-up rage. Violence their preferred brand of intimacy.
Jazz cops. Hands that've never brushed a lover's thigh, but have squeezed a call girl's throat. Improvising their vicious cabaret in sperm-stained hotel rooms.*
Jazz cops. A ballet of billy clubs. A tarantella of truncheons. A rash of stabbings. A penchant for pickaxings. A symphony of sex crimes. A banquet of beheadings.
Jazz cops. Hardboiled, two-fisted tales of alleyway etiquette. Garbage bags filled with feet. Pay the kid to dump 'em in the river.
Jazz cops. Beat heavy time. Downbeats devoid of mercy.
Jazz cops. Throw nightstick parties in the alley. And nobody walks for weeks.