A fat blond beast of a desk sergeant throwing himself at the feet of a thin, crippled, red-haired lush worker: sparse red hair, the junky gray felt hat which leaves a line on his forehead when he takes it off– it is that tight. So thos cop comes down from the rostrum of his desk and grovels at the feet of this skinny little middle-aged lush worker known as Red from Brooklyn, to distinguish him from another Red, who has no such definite and particularizing place of residence. Red shrinks back, expecting to get worked over.
“Red!” A horrible sound of defeat, a sordid battle fought and lost in a psyche as bleak as a precinct cell. “Reddie Boy!” He makes a kissking bite for Red’s shoe. Red retreats again.
“Now, Lieutenant! I didn’t so much as put my hand out.”
The sergeant jumps up like a great albino toad. He reaches out and grabs the trembling lush worker by the coat lapels.
“Lieutenant! Listen to me. I didn’t.”
“Reddie Boy! He throws his fat but powerful arms around Red, pinioning both of Red’s arms. He runs one hand up behind Red’s neck, kisses him brutally, repeatedly…”
— from Interzone (New York: Viking, 1989)