“Looks like Little Sally’s struck again,” the old man said, matter-of-factly. He spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground near the wreck of the pink Cozy Coupe, and looked over towards the crying toddler sitting about twenty feet away, nursing a fresh ouchie on his forehead: a souvenir from his encounter with Sally that’d probably stick with him for two, maybe three whole days. Upon viewing this stark reminder of Sally’s cruelty, the old man’s cool indifference turned to hot outrage.
“Do you have any idea how long Dickie’s mama is going to have to kiss that boo-boo to make it better?” The old man asked me, gesturing toward the crying boy, “Damn it, how long do the people of this city have to live in fear of that demonic four-year-old girl?”
I didn’t answer the old man. Thing was, I didn’t have any answers for him. The old man had twenty years under his badge, and I was just pushing six, but in our combined quarter century on the street, neither of us had ever seen such an adorable crime spree.
“I’d thought we’d seen the worst of Sally with the candy shop robberies,” the old man continued, ignoring my silence. “Hell, I didn’t think it could get much worse than the week she stuck gum in the hair of half the little kids on the block. But push-and-play carjackings? We gotta put this princess in the corner, kid, and soon. She’s got a taste for blood now, and I know you don’t want to see what a Fisher Price Bubble Mower can do to a man’s head.” The old man spit again, then nodded as I’d said something he could agree with. “I sure as hell don’t.”