The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Bullock shrugged into his coat and grabbed his hat from the rack by the door, moving with purpose toward the elevators. He needed to be in Uptown soon—the Buxton part of it. Traffic would already be heavy, but the real congestion wouldn't start until after sunset. Outside, the rain had began to beat down and the light had dimmed. A sharp chill bit at his skin. He dug into his trousers for his keys, scanning the quiet stretch of the East End ahead.

This part of the neighborhood was subdued—its usual noise muted by nine-to-fivers still chained to their desks. A few stragglers wandered the sidewalks—teenagers, maybe—heading toward Robbinson Park. There wasn't much for kids to do here. It was a true blue-collar, working-class district—men with calloused hands, women juggling two jobs. Unlike South B, with its slot parlors, strip joints, and pool halls, the East End was built on bars, corner markets, hole-in-the-wall food joints, and the occasional video store. If you wanted a good time, you went elsewhere—to the livelier parts of the Eastside or straight to the Westside.

Bullock preferred it here. Not just because he was born and raised in these streets, but because people carried themselves with a no-bullshit attitude. No reading between the fucking lines. And, most of all, mind your own fucking business.

He unlocked the driver's side door but froze just before getting in when he heard his name.

"Detective Bullock."

Two men strode up from down the block. One was unmistakable. Even if Bullock hadn't known what Captain Arnold Flass looked like, he would've figured it out fast—muscle-bound, tight crew shirt, buzzed hair, and a jaw that looked like it could snap a finger clean off. Hell, rumor had it, he had. But cops liked to exaggerate. The second man, Captain Scott Brandon, was younger, maybe late thirties, brown-haired, with a careful, measured gait—like a guy who thought twice before stepping into a fight.

Bullock stared into his car, weighing his options—not what to say, but what to do. Words never needed planning. Actions did.

He removed his coat, tossing it inside along with his hat and suit jacket. Next was his shoulder holster—he slid it off and dropped it onto the driver's seat. If they were here for a fight, he wasn't about to be weighed down. The men slowed as he shut the door.

"Captain Flass. Captain Brandon," Bullock said as his white shirt clung to him in the rain.

Brandon tugged at Flass's arm, muttering something low.

Flass barely glanced at him. His face beaded with rain. "You're a fucking pussy, you know that, Brandon?"

Brandon ignored the dig, while Flass fixed Bullock with a knowing smirk. "The guys at your old precinct said you were a hefty fucker. Told us to look for a linebacker in a gray trench coat."

Flass's voice carried, scattering the few pedestrians as if a shot had been fired. Bullock squared off with them, the scene playing out like an old-fashioned showdown. He could take Brandon, no question. But Flass? Even if he won, there'd be consequences.

"You used to play, right?" Brandon asked. "At that Catholic school in the Westside? What was it called, Flass?"

"Saint… something."

"Our Lady of Loreto," Bullock answered, clipped.

Brandon nodded. "You could've gone pro, huh?"

"Yeah. But shit happens."

"Injury?" said Brandon.

Bullock exhaled through his nose. "Tore my ACL and MCL."

Both men winced in sympathy.

Flass grunted. "Shame." Didn't sound like he meant it.

Bullock was done. "Alright, let's just get this over with."

The words put Brandon on edge, but a smirk crept across Flass's face as he rolled his neck with a slow crack. Brandon threw him a warning nudge.

"They said you were blunt too, but we were just looking to talk, Harv." Brandon grinned. "Can I call you Harv?"

Bullock weighed it. "Sure."

"We've been asking about you. Sounds like a lot of guys in the East End precincts like you. Even the boys in Uptown," said Brandon.

"As a matter of fact, your name comes up a lot," Flass added. "They say you're a loud son of a bitch, but a good laugh. Always there in a bind."

Bullock shrugged. "I do my job, and I look out for my boys."

"A guy like you could move up fast if he played his cards right," Brandon mused. "You've earned respect. That's no small feat. This is your first year as a detective, right?"

"No. I was in robbery for six months. Then transferred to homicide at the 52nd."

"Right," Brandon said lightly. "Had a little dust-up at the 37th, didn't you? Something about a girl getting roughed up."

Flass smirked. "A stripper, right? Heard you nearly lost your job over it. All for a fucking dancer."

He could tell Flass was itching for a fight—some guys just carried that energy. Not Brandon, though. The crisp coat, the smarmy grin—it told Bullock everything he needed to know. Brandon liked the cash and the flash, but when things got ugly, he'd be the first to duck out.

"Some can be rough. Little over the top with suspects," said Brandon.

"She was a witness," Bullock said.

Brandon nodded, narrowing the distance between them—but not too close. "Not everyone's like that. Most of us are just trying to get by. Ya know? City's expensive, but there are perks to moving up with the right people. Not just money. Girls, too. And I hear you like the clubs," Brandon added.

Bullock scoffed. "Ain't the only cop who goes to strip joints."

"No," Brandon admitted, smiling. "But you wouldn't have to waste your money. Not if you had the right friends."

Bullock heard Johnson's voice in his head, talking about vices. He shook it off. "I like where I'm at."

Brandon nodded, but the air shifted. His expression loosened, signaling he wasn't going to push—at least not yet. His gaze drifted for a moment.

"We hear you're partnered with Gordon," Brandon said, glancing at the ground before looking back at Bullock. "We need to talk to him. Privately. But there's a squad car outside his place. Seems like it's there 24/7. You help us out, we'll make sure there's something in it for you. And it won't get back to Bronson."

Bullock didn't even hesitate. "I'm not handing over my partner."

Flass snorted. "Loyal already? He's a clingy little shit."

Bullock's voice sharpened. "I don't backstab. Don't care whose back it is."

Flass's jaw tightened, his voice laced with anger. "This guy's no cop. He's a fucking traitor."

Brandon gently raised a hand toward Flass, a silent attempt to settle him before turning back to Bullock. "Maybe you'll know when he's alone. Walking to his car. Buying a pack of cigarettes. When you do, give us a call."

Bullock didn't move to take it. Brandon kept pressing until he finally grabbed it.

"See you around, Harv."

Bullock watched them walk back to their car, then let out a slow breath and climbed into his own. His shirt clung to him, his hair a dripping mess. He glanced at the card, then shoved it into his pocket.

"Fuck," he muttered, starting the car.