What can a disgraced former cop do about any of it? 

Not much. 

Or Everything....

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MRPDLJX

From Chapter 1

 Jackson pulled out through the Desert Palms Motor Court and saw George, his neighbor, outside in his carport doing push ups. George was one of the good guys left in the park. In his mid 70’s, Jackson was pretty sure he could still kick most people’s asses, including his own. Of course, this morning, that wouldn’t be hard. His 9 year old could have taken him down. 

Good old George, with his neat white crop. Trimmed military perfect. He still weighed in at about 150 lbs. It looked like he had about 4% body fat. Tougher than an old boot, he was. 

Jackson stopped and rolled the window down. 

“Hey old man! Take it easy over there. You’re about the only friend I have left! Can’t afford to lose you.” He shouted over at him. 

George stood up and wiped his hands together. “Well lookie there. Mr Car Guy all spiffed up and headed to off to that dump. Don’t worry about me, cream puff. Get out of that chick car and I’ll show you.” He grinned and put up his fists, doing a little boxing jig. 

Jackson laughed, shaking his head. They didn’t make them like George anymore. 

George walked over and leaned into his window. “Got some lemons you’re gonna peddle to some unsuspecting gangsta's this morning?” Referring to the typical client of the high mileage imports Jackson moved these days.  

“Another day, another badass whip out the door, George. We can only hope, anyway.” Jackson smacked back. 

“Big day of Court TV planned?” Jackson asked him. 

It was their little ritual.  George loved the banter. 

“I think I’ll start out with some gourmet Cheerios and talk radio, then check out the latest trial. Some puke that killed his wife. Guilty as hell. Total rat bastard. You remember the type. ”
 
“Sure do George.” Jackson asked. 

George was retired 20 plus years from the FBI. The former Chief Agent for the state. He had moved into the Motor Court after retirement. He and his wife had sold their home and downsized, planning on traveling and seeing the world. That all changed when Lucy had died from a sudden aneurysm only 3 months after moving in. It had devastated George and he couldn’t bring himself to move away without her. So he stayed.

George made it a habit of hanging out on Jackson’s porch, Tecate’ beer in hand, regaling him with stories of days gone by. The glories of operating outside the system and not being hamstrung by the “codes” that drove everyone in law enforcement nuts these days. Jackson had tolerated more than most people would, in his day.

“You know it, Super Cop.” George replied. 

“Keep eyes on the ‘hood, George. Gotta jet.” Jackson said.  

“Copy that, Jackson. Always do.” George said and gave him a two fingered salute.  He looked around, fake eagle eyed and at the ready. 

George double patted the top of the door jam and Jackson pulled away smiling. He was lucky to have him in his life.

Ever since the Great Fall and his shadow existence in the ghetto, friends were few and far between. .