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“Forty a pill,” the kid said, his blurry eyes surveying Kennedy.

“No T-bone?” McCrory said.

The junkie’s eyes then tried to lock on McCrory’s.

“I got T-bone. Got a pocketful. Nickel- and dime-bumps. How many you want?”

McCrory didn’t respond.

“Look, man,” the junkie said, looking back over one shoulder, then the other, “I don’t wanna get my ass capped ’cause of you hangin’ here!”

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the fookin saints, McCrory thought.

And I don’t want to touch this junkie, let alone have him stink up the backseat worse than it is.

But here goes . . .

“Don’t worry, we’re professionals,” McCrory said, and heard Kennedy’s deep chuckle.

McCrory, right hand on his Glock, pulled on the door latch with his left, then leaned hard with all his weight into the door panel. The door flew open, knocking the junkie off balance. He toppled backward on his heels, landing flat on the snow.

Guns up, McCrory and Kennedy were out of the vehicle about the time he hit the ground. Kennedy, scanning up and down the street, covered McCrory as McCrory put the muzzle of his pistol to the junkie’s forehead, then grabbed his right wrist and spun him facedown. Putting a knee in the small of his back, he effortlessly handcuffed the right wrist, then the left.

Limp as a rag doll.

At least the smack and whatever else he’s on is good for something.

McCrory then looked toward Kennedy, and saw that the Patriots knit cap had fallen to the sidewalk and now was by his feet.

“Hey, don’t step on that!”

Kennedy shook his head as he slipped his Glock back in its black leather hip holster.

“That thing alone could get us shot at out here,” Kennedy said, pulling on blue latex gloves. “Only thing worse might be a Dallas Cowboys one.”

“Cowboys suck!” the junkie said.

“See?” Kennedy told McCrory, then said to the kid, “You got bigger problems than football right now.”

“You got a name?” McCrory said, as he began patting him down.

He yawned. “Name? Why you need a name?”

McCrory showed him his bad

ge.

“Now give me your name.”

“Aw, shit, man.” He sighed, and after a moment said, “I, uh, I go by Jamal . . .”

Right.

“You got a real name, Jamal?”

He looked over each shoulder, up and down the street, then said, “All right. It’s Michael.”

“What about a last name?”