Manhunt. Volume 4, Number 6, June, 1956

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It wasn’t so much what they did to her, though that was bad enough. The thing was, she was a cop’s wife.

The kid’s drunk, Max thought, or doped. He watched warily while the boy half-danced, half-staggered in front of him. Beyond, he could see the rest of them — twenty or thirty — their faces shadowed in the street lamp light.

He kept his voice normal. “Come on, kid, let’s have the knife.”

“What’s the matter, Fuzz?” the kid jeered. “Is the big copper scared of a little shiv?” He moved a step forward, flashing the blade in a wide arc. There was a murmur behind him; the crowd stirred, flowed outward in a wider circle.

“Can’t let them get behind me,” Max thought. But the car was there with the radio on. If he could stall ’til the patrol came. He could use his gun, but — hell, they were just kids I

The boy hiccuped loudly, giggled. He planted his feet apart, threw his arms wide. “Why’nt you call some more fuzzies? Call all the damn coppers. Tell ’em Sid invites ’em all.” He lost his balance, staggered.

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