It was a cold March evening in New York, the kind where the wind knifed through the alleys and rattled the grates of the subway vents. Popeye Doyle, retired but never really done, stood outside a Midtown coffee shop, chewing on a toothpick and watching the street like it might confess something.

He hadn’t worn the badge in years, but old habits didn’t die—they just went into hiding. The city was different now, smoother around the edges, like a con job that got too good at pretending. But the stink was still there if you knew where to look. And Doyle knew.

He pulled his coat tighter and checked his watch. He was waiting for an old pal from the force, a guy who still had his ear to the ground. But then, something caught his eye—a motorcade rolling down Fifth Avenue like it owned the place. Black SUVs, tinted windows, men in suits with earpieces.

“Jesus,” Doyle muttered. “This circus.”

The motorcade stopped in front of a gold-plated skyscraper, a gaudy monstrosity that looked like a casino rejected it for being too much. And then, stepping out of the biggest SUV, was the man himself—Donald J. Trump.

Doyle had seen him plenty of times on the news, always talking, always selling. A New York hustler who made it big, but still just a hustler in Doyle’s eyes. He watched as Trump adjusted his overcoat and waved to the few stragglers who still thought he was worth cheering. Doyle just shook his head.

“Hey, Popeye,” a voice called. His pal had arrived.

Doyle grunted in greeting, but his eyes were still on Trump.

“You ever meet him?” his friend asked.

“Nah,” Doyle said. “But I know his type.”

“What’s his type?”

“The kind that never got their hands dirty.”

Doyle spit out his toothpick and watched as Trump disappeared into his tower, flanked by security. A guy like that, Doyle figured, wouldn’t last five minutes in his old beat. The streets didn’t care about money or ratings—they cared about who had the guts to stick their neck out.

And Doyle had never seen Trump stick his neck out for anyone but himself.

“Come on,” Doyle said, turning away. “Let’s get a drink.”

He’d seen enough for one night.