I found it difficult not to stare the first time I met Truth. I saw a picture of him before, of course, but it didn’t prepare me for meeting him in person. Truth was tall, about six-four, and solid. His close-cropped hair and clean-shaven face made him look younger than his age, which I knew to be twenty-eight. Only his eyes looked old, like they had seen a lot more life than I had.

The file on Truth told me all kinds of details about his history, but I did my best to put that information out of my mind as I sized him up. I wanted to make my own impression of the man who was supposed to be my partner. The look on his face told me that he was doing the same thing. We were the same age, been on the job for the same amount of time, and both of us were considered young to be detectives. But here we were.

After a few seconds, I held out my hand. “Marshall,” I said. “Irving Marshall.”

His large, black hand dwarfed mine. Truth wasn’t that much taller than me, but his presence was … bigger. Everything about Truth seemed exaggerated – almost cartoony in size. He smiled a bit and said, “God’s Honest Truth. And that’s probably the last time you’ll ever hear me say my full name again. Call me Truth, and we’ll be cool.”

I wondered if we would ever really be cool, given our assignment. There were two types of squads that used up cops fast and left them changed forever: sex crimes and Internal Affairs, AKA The Rat Squad.

And we were the rats.

We had been hand-picked to be part of a new Internal Affairs department. I hadn’t met our new boss yet, but I heard what they said about her: she was ambitious and smart, and she had a hard-on for bad cops.

Virginia Baker didn’t care that nearly every cop in the city hated her. She knew cop culture -- that we looked out for each other and wanted to take care of the bad cops on our own. But the rumor was that she wanted to make her career on the backs of cops – even good cops – if they got in her way.

I knew this because for the last three weeks, cops all over the city were talking about Baker, and what a bitch she was. I knew more about her than I did my last girlfriend. Which is probably why I was single.

But the city was lousy with bad cops, and the media was all over it. The Chief was getting squeezed from all directions to Do Something, and that’s what was going on.

I got a note from the Desk Sergeant, directing me to report to Baker’s office. When I opened my locker, a package of Kraft Singles cheese slices fell out. The word “Rat” was scrawled across the inside of the door. I swear I could smell the Sharpie that one of my brothers in blue used for the prank.

Cops are the worst for gossip. The old-timers, especially, had a lot to say about a lot of stuff, and they competed to find fresh stuff to talk about. They knew about my meeting with Baker before I did.

The Rat Squad. Where careers go to die. I didn’t want the job, even though it came with a promotion from uni to detective. The bump in pay would be nice, but once you go Rat, no cop wants to work with you again. And I liked being a cop. It’s all I ever wanted.

I had some time to kill before the meeting, so I decided to do some quick research. Maybe I could figure a way out of this. The shift change was over, and I knew that the desk sergeant would be bored. And he liked to talk.

The Sergeant’s Desk was really an office that was raised off the ground a couple of feet. The walls were half solid and half chain link fence, and covered with bulletin boards, cork boards, pictures and Post-It notes. Clipboards with schedules and assignments hung on hooks all over the office.

Every surface in the office was covered with piles of paper. The actual desk was almost clean. An ancient computer and printer sat by the window directly in front of the sergeant’s chair. A phone with four lines was opposite of the computer. And the Sarge’s coffee cup sat in the middle. Another coffee cup held several pens and one upside-down pair of scissors.

I knew that the left drawer held an ashtray, a Zippo and a couple of cigars. When he thought no one was around, Matheson smoked in the office.

“Sarge,” I said in the best conspiratorial voice I could muster, “what do you know about this meeting I got?”

“I got nothin’,” he said. Art Matheson had been on the job for twenty-six years, and the joke told about him was that he had been counting down the days to retirement since his tenth year.

Matheson was a short-timer, and I knew that he liked just one thing more than being so close to retirement that he could smell it. “Come on, Sarge. You never let me down before. You always got my back on this stuff.”

Matheson collected information like other men collected dirty jokes. He took pride in knowing every rumor about everyone. If there was a bribe or kickback, Matheson knew about it. He had the number on every guy in the precinct – and most of the other precincts as well. Matheson knew who was sleeping around on their wives, who was in treatment, or ‘dating’ a pro, or if a guy spent too much on dice or Texas Hold ‘Em.

“You sure you got nothing on this?” I put a touch of desperation in my tone. To be honest, I didn’t have to try too hard. I hate going into any situation blind, especially one this important.

Matheson looked at me and his flabby face creased a bit, which I knew was the closest thing to a smile anyone would see from him. “What do you got to trade?”

I hadn’t considered that. “What do you want?” I couldn’t think of anything I knew that would be of use to him.

“It’s not that much, Marshall.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a blank piece of paper. “I just want your stats.”

“My stats?”

“Yeah.” Matheson leaned back into his chair. “Your weight. How much you’re working out. Who you’re sparring with. How much you can bench press, how far you run. Stats.”

Then I understood. Last year, Matheson lost a lot of money on the charity boxing tournament because he bet against me. I took the whole thing, and we raised a few thousand bucks for the neighborhood Boys and Girls Club. But the big money was on the side bets, like always.

No one expected me to win, even me. I’ve had my share of fights, but I’ve never been all that competitive. I wasn’t even going to enter, but Matheson talked me into it. Probably because he was sure I would get beat.

Matheson trained his eye on me. “You are going to enter the tourney again.”

“I haven’t thought about it much.” Actually, I had thought about it. I didn’t want to do it again. Too many hard feelings with the other guys. I would rather buy the winner a drink afterward.

“Well, you gotta defend your title.”

“I’ll think about it some more,” I said, grabbing the piece of paper and writing down the stuff I knew Matheson would want to see.

“Keep me current on this,” he said. “In the meantime, I picked up a little something for you.” He held up a manila envelope.

I looked inside the envelope. A sheaf of loose papers included the job description and salary details. And information on my prospective partner – God’s Honest Truth. I had no illusions about this; Truth probably had similar stuff on me.

“Thanks, Sarge.”

“Hey Marshall,” he said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t forget where you came from. Or who’s been watching out for you.”

That’s when I knew that I was going to the Rat Squad no matter what I wanted. Matheson had made sure that my last few minutes at the precinct involved receiving a favor from him.

He had just made a good-will investment, hoping that I would come through for him if he ever needed it.