the tune of $200 a day?” asked Finnick, raising an eyebrow.  “Come on, Nick; only fools go into that for the cash, and they usually don't last long, if you get my drift.”

Thank you for summing that up, thought Nick, who knew all too well that there were other crime bosses who'd gladly give him the same kind of “cold shoulder” Mr. Big nearly did.  He wasn't about to let his guard down, though.  “Hey, Carrots thinks I can make it.”

“You mean she thinks you can change,” Finnick argued, “or that she can change you.”  He spoke with absolute confidence that this was what Judy had in mind; there was no question in his mind that Judy was trying to make some kind of convert out of Nick.  “The question is, do you want that?”

Martial artists sometimes practiced the trick of wearing their opponent down with a series of small, well-placed blows to throw off their balance before toppling the foe.  Finnick, intentionally or not, was applying much the same approach to their conversation.

Nick, however, was no slouch when it came to verbal MMA either.  “Are you worried about me changing,” he asked pointedly, “or are you worried about us changing?”

That gave Finnick pause.  Of course there was the fact that, if he did become a cop, Nick might be required one day to arrest Finnick.  Another aspect of their dilemma, however, went deeper.  There was a certain truth among those involved in unscrupulous business, which nearly all of them knew but few ever admitted, even to themselves.  No criminal had anything against those who engaged in honest professions – provided that the profession in question didn't get in the way of the crook's line of work.  At best, the criminal could laugh at the honest folks behind their backs, fancying himself to be of a higher class who did not let themselves be confined by society's concepts of right and wrong.  He might convince himself that if the lowbrows working nine to five had the imagination, the guts, or the intelligence to hack it outside the law, they'd do it in a heartbeat, or tell himself that they simply didn't know what they were missing.  At worst, they could be shrugged off.  'Nice that they can live without breaking the rules,' the crook might say, 'but it's not for me.'

Finnick had never been especially good at such defense mechanisms, and mammals like Nick – mammals who had lived in the dark and then embraced the light – presented an uncomfortable reality: honest living was possible for anyone, if they were willing to do it.  When it was someone talented and sly like Nick, the old lie that crooks were in any regard superior to everyday Joe Schmoes fell apart.  A crook who went straight was like one of those guys in advertisements who said, 'If I can do it, you can do it,' and they inexorably begged the question: 'So why don't you?'

Perhaps it was only that, deep down, Finnick was not as comfortable with his life as some crooks – that his conscience was not as seared as those of others in society's underbelly – which stopped him from considering this a personal blow; an attack not just on his career, but on his identity.  Still, the pragmatic question remained.  “And what if the big cheese tells you to bring me in, huh?” he asked.

Nick shook his head.  “I can figure that out when I get to it,” he argued.  “The police haven't thrown me a mess yet that I couldn't slip out of.”

Finnick folded his arms.  “Until now, you didn't play their way.”

The conversation didn't really go much of anywhere beyond that, and finally Nick just let his shoulders slump.  “Look, buddy, this doesn't have to change things between us.  Even if we're not in business anymore, we can still be friends, right?”  He stuck out his paw to shake.

Finnick hesitated, then shook Nick's paw.  “Alright,” he conceded.  “But you come here with handcuffs...”

Nick's smile suddenly fell into a dead serious expression.  “That's not gonna happen,” he promised.

Each of them knew full well that they were making promises they might not be able to keep.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Olivia Poisson's house, a cell phone rang.  The owner picked up.  “What is it?”

“Judge just got a warrant request on Pwasson's Passions,” answered a shaky voice.

“Is that so?  Has the judge seen it yet?”

“No; the fax came while she was out of the office.”

A smile came to the mammal's lips.  “Very good.  I'm sure you can file it... appropriately.”

“Consider it done.”  Just before the call ended, there was the sound of a paper shredder.

Well, now who do you suppose that was?

As always, I'd love to know what you think.