Bayside detectives

The rain in Bayside City didn’t wash away the scum; it just made it slick.

​I pulled my trench coat tighter against the midnight chill, the neon sign of The Rusty Anchor bleeding a sickly red glow into the puddles at my feet. Inside that dive bar was Tommy "Two-Times" Marcone, the only guy who could tell us who put three bullets into a high-society dame.

​I looked down at my partner, sitting shotgun in the unmarked sedan.

​He was resting on a crumpled fast-food wrapper, his green-and-yellow skin bruised from a scuffle we had in an alleyway three blocks back. He didn’t wear a badge, mostly because he didn't have pockets. He was a solo, tropical fruit. An actual papaya. But damn it, he was the best partner a cynical, burnt-out cop could ask for.

​"The perp's inside, Papaya," I muttered, lighting a cigarette. "We play it cool. Good cop, bad cop. You know the drill."

​Papaya rolled slightly to the left, hitting the dashboard with a soft thud. "Kumquat," he whispered. His voice was a low, raspy rustle of dry leaves.

​"Exactly my thought. We don't take any of his lip."

​I grabbed Papaya, tucking him under my arm like a bruised leather football, and kicked the bar door open. The smell of cheap whiskey and regret hit me instantly. Marcone was at the back pool table, chalking a cue. When he saw me, his eyes went wide. When he saw my partner, his jaw dropped.

​"Nick," Marcone sneered, trying to play it off. "And... what is that? You bringing your lunch to a interrogation?"

​I slammed Papaya down onto the green felt of the pool table. He rolled to a stop right in front of Marcone's cue ball.

​"This is Detective Papaya, Marcone. And he’s got a real bad attitude today," I growled, leaning in close. "Who paid you to silence the rich girl?"

​Marcone laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I don't know nothing, Nick. And what’s the tropical freak gonna do, make me a smoothie?"

​Papaya didn't flinch. He just sat there, heavy with justice. Then, he spoke.

​"Pomegranate."

​Marcone stopped laughing. The color drained from his face. "How... how do you know about the pomegranate shipments?"

​"My partner sees everything, Tommy," I said, catching the bluff and running with it. "He knows about the docks. He knows about the money."

​"Cantaloupe," Papaya added, his tone dripping with cold authority.

​Marcone stumbled back, knocking over a barstool. "No! Not the Cantaloupe Cartel! Look, man, I didn't press the trigger! It was Vinnie! Vinnie 'The Mango' Rossi!"

​I looked down at my partner. A single tear of condensation rolled down his waxy skin.

​"Mango," Papaya whispered, a grim confirmation.

​"Good work, partner," I said, slapping a pair of cuffs on Marcone. "Let's get this garbage off my streets."