Rocco Maroni poured himself a cup of what was supposed to pass for coffee, there in the squad room of New York City Precinct number 139. He cupped it in both hands, hoping to warm himself up a bit from December chill, before setting it down to draw a big red X on Friday the fourth. “Only two more weeks.” The countdown was on to his holiday singles’ cruise.

“Morning, Maroni! What a beautiful day.” Rocco’s partner, Ridley, was always so damned perky.

“My balls nearly froze off,” Rocco complained. Unusually cold weather had settled in somewhere around mid-November with no sign of letting up according to The Weather Channel.

“How about a warm muffin to thaw yourself out—starting with your balls?”

“You suggesting I shove one down my pants?” The basket was red, the napkin green, and the pumpkin muffins—the same hue as Ridley’s red hair—smelled heavenly, but Rocco would be going shirtless for two weeks as he sailed across a warm ocean with a bunch of other half-naked guys, most of who would probably have six-pack abs and muscular pecs. He started at the baked goods. His stomach rumbled. “I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, come on. It sounds like you skipped breakfast.”

“I did.”

“It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.”

Determined to lose at least twenty pounds by December eighteenth, Rocco was down only one so far. “Fuck it.” He took a muffin in each hand. “I’m never going to be one of those underwear model types anyway,” he said.

“I’ve seen you in your skivvies a hundred times, Roc, when you change from your blues to your street clothes. I’d put you on a billboard any day.” Ridley nudged him with his elbow. “Look out, ladies! You’ll be the hit of that love boat you’re getting on for Christmas.”

Rocco bit off the muffin top and tried not to think about his. “Thanks,” he grumbled with his mouth full.

“You’re welcome.” Ridley set the basket on Rocco’s desk. “Just in case you want more.”

Ridley Cumberland was built like a model. He was also a dork, with curly orange clown hair, freckles, glasses, and gigantic feet that made one wonder about old adages concerning the size of a man’s shoe. A relative newbie, he had been Rocco’s partner for less than two months, and even though he’d stripped to his shorts in that very same locker room, Rocco had never gotten a good look at what he was packing to see if the big feet, big dick axiom was true. Rocco himself was still considered a greenhorn by his fellow officers. Though he was well into his fourth year as a cop, he had been with the 139thfor one. His precinct nickname was Low Fat, because he was short and chunky.

Poor Ridley, he didn’t have just one nickname. There were many variations when it came to homosexual slurs, and Ridley had been called every one. When the two were first paired up, one of their squad members cracked, “Hey, Low Fat, you’ll need a step ladder or mountain climbing equipment to fuck him in the ass.” A police precinct was a lot like middle school, Rocco always said. Because life outside the doors was tough and scary, inside the men acted like little boys, goofing around, talking dirty, and bullying the underclassman.

“Hey! A present!” Someone had left a six-inch ceramic Christmas tree on Ridley’s chair that very morning, the point being, Rocco assumed, for Ridley to sit on it. “Good one!” Harassed to a point that would have lesser men in tears, Ridley always took it like a man, with a grin and a good sense of humor. Rocco gave him props for that. “I’d have been its angel topper.” Some of the older, allegedly more mature cops snickered as Ridley held it up.

“You’d have been its bottom bitch,” Rocco said.

“It’s pretty.”

“Some of them probably used it as a butt plug.”

Ridley set it on his desk. “Boys being boys.”

“The prank or ass play?”

“You’re funny.” Ridley smiled wide as he crumpled up some white paper and put it around the thing like snow. “There. This place needed a little Christmas!”

“Maroni, Cumberland, in my office, now!”

A chorus of “Oohs” went up throughout the room, with a “Low Fat’s in trouble. Low Fat’s in trouble,” coming from somewhere in the back. When someone shouted “Dead fag walking!” Rocco turned and glared. That was crossing a line, he thought.