“ He went into his motivated-career-cop act, driving in and out of traffic with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching down occasionally to adjust the radio, as though the entire metropolis would be in mortal jeopardy if David Three were to miss a call. He eased the car over toward his old waterfront district, along the bumpy railroad crossings and spurs, through a shadowed area of corrugated sheds and warehouses, past lines of empty cargo vans stacked three deep. He slowed the car to a crawl past the side fence of the old steel mill, now beginning its second century of tinting the night air scarlet, and detoured around the rolls of blue ribbon steel stacked by the private road. A mangy mutt appeared in their headlights and he resisted an urge to speed up and put a little excitement into their lived, but instead he swerved the car into a loading area where stacks of ship’s piping turned green in racks and scrap-metal cubes were stacked in tall pyramids and a fleet of new Toyota pickups covered a space the size of a football field.
He was just starting to show his partner the dock where he’d shot it out with the Mafia hijackers when they caught another radio call. A dead kid, nineteen or twenty… “

Night Watch – Jack Olsen