‘I’d like…’ ‘Go home!’ He shouts at me. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, but I think we can both agree that today has given plenty of evidence...that this studio might not be the best fit for your ideas or methods. Go home.’ They walk out, and I’m left standing there. Thirty-three years old and it still feels like I just got done with a trip to the principal’s office. Well, fuck. I guess I’ll go home. Buck Nelson, of shiraz fame, is sitting out on his deck…our deck, really…with a glass of wine in his. She was tall, five-ten, maybe in the low heels worn by female officers. Her uniform was standard for a street cop, slacks instead of a skirt, but the cut was feminine, and she filled it better than most. Her hair was a silvered blonde, cut short as per regulations. Her voice was a low contralto, a good cop's voice, steady and firm, commanding or friendly, as she wanted."Same for anybody in blue," Jim said smiling. She was a definite improvement to the Precinct. "And you are?" Tracy Flynn, out. More

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