Murphy noticed the kid wearing the Raiders jacket, maybe ten or eleven, standing outside of Medger’s Liquors at 12th and U. He had seen the kid the last year or so, hanging on that corner, often during school hours. No one had the time to bother much with truants anymore, but Murphy wondered what the kid was up to, if he was a runner or a baby foot soldier or just checking out the hustler’s map, prepping himself for a lifetime of nothing.

“There’s your boy,” said Tutt. “Same as always. One of these days we ought to stop, see what his story is.”

“I expect we’ll be crossing paths someday. When he grows up some.”

“Yeah, they all grow up, don’t they? Grow up and fuck up.”

Across the street, past immobile construction equipment, near the bank on the 11th Street corner of U, flags and balloons announced the grand opening of a new store named Real Right Records. Below the identifying sign, in smaller letters: “African American Owned and Operated,” and “Your In-Town Music Connection.”

Tutt said, “You believe some fool, opening up a business down here? You got your criminal element and, on top of it, all this construction. How stupid could the man be?”

“Man’s name is Marcus Clay.”

“You know him?”

“Heard of him. Played ball for Cardoza back in the sixties. I saw him go off in this Interhigh match when I was, like, twelve years old. Got a few years on me, but they still talked about him a little when I was comin’ up. They say he could sky like Connie from the key.”

“Connie?”

“Hawkins. Clay’s got another store over at Dupont Circle, and in Georgetown. Got one in Northern Virginia, too, I think. Tryin’ to bring somethin’ into the community here, I guess.”

“Yeah, I see what he’s tryin’ to do. Question is, what the fuck for?”

Tutt turned south on 11th. They passed a black Z parked on the left. Tutt slowed down, checked out the driver and passenger, cruised past and went along the strip of two-story residential row houses.

“Rogers and Monroe,” said Tutt, and Murphy said nothing.

Down by T Street, Tutt pulled the cruiser over to the curb and cut the engine. Tutt liked to park here and watch the neighborhood. This was his quiet time, an opportunity to engage in what he called his “street surveillance.” Tutt still imagined himself to be a good cop. Murphy had no such illusions but was grateful for these rare moments of silence.

Murphy wished he were home, kicking back on his sofa, watching the game. The first two rounds of the tournament were the best, maybe the four best days in all of sports. Maryland would be finishing up with Pepperdine now, and it gnawed at him that he had no idea how Len Bias and the Terps had done. Like most D.C. natives, Murphy was a Georgetown fan, had managed to see the Hoyas edge Texas Tech the night before. Georgetown still had some good players — Williams and Jackson and Broadnax, too — but it hadn’t been the same since Patrick had shipped off to New York. Murphy’s heart had gone on over to Maryland this year because of Bias alone; there was beauty in the way that young man played.

“Check it out,” said Tutt.

Murphy scoped T. His eyes lit on a boy, eleven, maybe twelve, wearing a neon green knit cap and palming something over to another boy, bone skinny, at the head of an alley.

“You recognize them?”

Murphy shook his head. Far as he knew, they weren’t part of Tyrell’s crew.

“Stay here,” said Tutt, patting the grip of his service revolver.

“Want me to radio it in?”

“Uh-uh. I got it wired.”

Tutt was out of the car and across the street just as fast, one hand on his night stick, keeping it steady at his side as he made it behind a tree and then another, getting closer to the alley. Murphy studied Tutt: careful, but fearless as a mothafucker, too, the kind of partner most cops wanted. That is, if you could get past everything else.

Murphy heard a dull explosion somewhere behind him. He gazed idly in the rearview, saw nothing.

Tutt came up on the two boys, shouted out his warning, took off after the one in the green cap as the other hightailed it west on T. Tutt hit it: chest out, running hard while carrying twenty-five pounds of pack set and gun and assorted cop hardware, blowing and going, almost on top of the kid. Then he was gone into the narrow alley. Murphy did not consider chasing the skinny kid.

In the rearview, Murphy saw smoke rise over a row house roof, back off of U. Several sirens called out from different directions. Murphy adjusted the radio’s frequency and listened for the report. He keyed the microphone and informed the dispatcher that they’d respond.

Tutt emerged from the alley a couple of minutes later, John Wayning it across the street. He got into the driver’s side, his face pink, his eyes stoked and wide. Murphy noticed the red seeping into the skinned palm of Tutt’s right hand.

“Who was he?” said Murphy.

“Nobody we know. Some kid, young kid, way out of his territory. I was almost on him, but Tyrell’s boys got these old tires and shit spread out all over the alley. Slowed me down.”

“That’s what they’re there for.”

“I know. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him to stop, Murph... Ah, Christ. Stupid. I tripped back there, took some skin off on the concrete.” Tutt shook the pain out of his hand. “What’s all the noise?”

“Just came over the radio. Some kind of accident in front of that new record store. Got a car in flames right in the middle of U. Told them we’d get on it.”

“The Third District,” said Tutt happily, ignitioning the squad car. “Always somethin’ goin’ on down here.”

“Why you love it, man.”

“You got that right, partner.”

Tutt spun the wheel, one-eightied the cruiser, and punched the gas coming out of the fishtail. Murphy flipped on the overheads and grabbed the door’s armrest. Tutt high-cackled as the cruiser left rubber on the street.

They were at the top of a steep hill, looking at the downtown skyline and the monuments below, and then over the crest, and the Reliant went down 13th between Cardoza High on the left and the ruin of the subsidized Clifton Terrace apartment complex on the right. Some black kids walked slowly across the street, made Eddie brake, gave him hard looks through the windshield as they passed. Eddie met their eyes for only a second, then looked away.

Donna looked across the bench at Nervous Eddie as he made the turn and took them east on U. Despite the cold March wind, Eddie had his Sonny Crockett thing going on today: a pastel sleeveless T-shirt under a light rayon sport coat — sleeves pushed back on the forearms — and a two-day growth of beard on his hollow cheeks. The look was cool out in the suburbs, but down here he looked like just another guy who picked his attitude up off TV.

Donna had affection for Eddie. On the downside, he was a follower and without ambition, and the guys he partied with were stupid and cruel, but Eddie himself was kind, and he had yet to screw her over in that thoughtless way she had come to expect from men. He was younger than she was by a few years, too, and still eager to please in bed.

Yeah, she had affection for Eddie. Affection, not love. The difference was significant. She never stared at Eddie and imagined what he’d look like with gray hair. Never pictured him at the head of anyone’s dinner table. Course, they did have a couple of things in common. Both of them liked to party, for one. And they shared a cockeyed dream of moving to Florida someday, having a modest house with their own swimming pool in the backyard. But this wasn’t much to base a future on, Donna knew.

If you asked her what she was looking for, she’d give you the simple response: Love was what she was looking for, to love and to be loved back. And if she was being honest that day, she might have added something else: A guy with money in the bank and the looks to make her wet.

At Donna’s instruction, Eddie pulled over near the corner of 11th. You’d barely notice the record store if you weren’t looking for it, what with all the construction equipment, bulldozers and such, parked in the middle of the street. Eddie guessed that was why the owner had strung up plastic flags and that big “Open” sign, on account of the store was so hard to see. Dividing the east- and westbound lanes, a platform truck up on leg cranks held a small load of steel I beams on its flat, open bed.

“You want me to walk you in?” said Eddie.

Donna smiled, patted Eddie’s cheek like he was some kind of kid or something. What, didn’t she think he could protect her if anything went down?

“I’ll be okay,” said Donna. “Be out in about ten.”

“Okay, babe. I’m watchin’ you.”

That’s what he did. Watched her cross the street with that bouncy walk of hers, her ass doing the alternating piston thing inside her skirt, Eddie thinking, God, she’s some kind of woman. Man would be a fool to let that shit get away.

Karras and Clay went out to the sales floor, where Clarence Tate, Clay’s controller, was talking to the new store manager, a guy who went by the name of Cootch. Cootch smoked Newports and wore long-sleeved Oxford shirts year round to hide his skinny arms. He claimed the girls liked him better like that, covered up, until they got surprised by the rest of him later on. Cootch had a big smile reflecting his positive disposition and a solid work ethic to go with it; Clay had recently promoted him from his six-month stint as a clerk at the Dupont Circle store.

Tate stood behind the new register and explained the order-entry system, once again, to Cootch. Clay watched Tate’s face, the sidelong looks he gave Cootch as he tried to keep a lid on his impatience. All right, Cootch was a little slow on the uptake. But he loved music, had a deep knowledge of it, and was pleasant with the customers. Tate had to understand; not everyone caught on as fast as he did with this computer shit. But everyone did have their strengths, which was why Clay had Karras out in the stores, hiring and firing and dealing with personnel, and why he had Tate, who was a man who could deal better with numbers than with people, behind a desk.

You had to give Clarence Tate credit, though. While working full time for Real Right he had done six years of night school and gotten his accounting degree. All that and he had raised young Denice, too, all by himself. Clay had been lucky to find Tate, and keep him, after that bad shit they had all got wrapped up in back in ’76.

“Yo, boss,” said Cootch. “Wha’sup?”

“Cootch,” said Clay. “How you doin’ with that, man?”

“He’s gettin’ it,” said Tate, who picked up a tabloid-sized newspaper off the counter as he moved out from behind the register stand. Tate was as tall as Clay, but his schedule through the years had kept him away from any kind of exercise. Unlike Clay, he had let himself spread out.

“Clarence,” said Karras.

“Dimitri.”

“Any beeswax?” said Karras. Not that he cared much about the numbers, but the coke pulsing through his blood was pushing him to conversation.

“Huh?” Tate seemed distracted. He kept glancing over to the window fronting the store, where his daughter, Denice, stood looking out across the street, her book bag over her shoulder.

“The business,” said Karras. “We doin’ any?”

“Never enough,” said Tate, his standard answer. He turned to Clay, held up the newspaper. “Course, we might be doin’ better if we were in City Paper this week—”

“Had a full-page grand opening ad in there last week,” said Clay. “Can only afford two of those a month.”

“What you gotta do, then,” said Tate, “is run a half-page every week. Got to be in that joint every single week, Marcus.”

Karras looked at the two of them. They had this same argument every Friday, usually right about this time.

“I like those big ads, Clarence. Keeps the competition on their toes. Makes us look like somethin’.”

“It’s like they always told us in my marketing classes,” said Tate, “when they were teachin’ us print advertising: Frequency beats size, Marcus, every time.”

“That’s what she said,” said Karras, and no one responded. Well, Cootch did give him a charitable, lopsided grin.

Clay rubbed his face. “Cootch, turn that music down a touch, will you, man?” The music always got to Clay first, even more so in the last few years, as he neared the end of his thirties.

“This one’s gonna be big, Marcus,” said Karras, nodding at the wall-mounted speakers where the eight-piece funk was coming through.

“Bigger than the moonwalk,” added Cootch.

“Yeah, I know.” Clay hadn’t paid much attention to this group since Cameosis in ’80, but even he still knew a hit when he heard one. “Word Up” was going to be the bomb in D.C.

“Better be big,” mumbled Tate. “We brought in enough units, man. And too many on the wax side, if y’all don’t mind my sayin’.”

“The twelve-inch on this one,” said Clay, “is going to go large.”

Karras had been hoping the conversation wouldn’t go in this direction. The product mix had been the most heated debate subject for the last six months. Lately, they had been bringing in about 80 percent vinyl and cassette, 20 percent CD. No one seemed to know for sure the way the software was going to shake out. On top of that, the rumor mill had the national chains headed toward town. It was a crazy time to be in the music business. And a really crazy time, thought Karras, to be opening new stores.

“Hey, Neecie,” shouted Tate across the store. “Come away from that window, now, hear?”

Tate knew who she was looking at: that boy leaning against the Z, looked like some kind of drug boy to him, across the street. His girl was too young to be fraternizing with young men. She was especially too young to be checking out young men like that one. Far as he was concerned, she’d always be too young.

Denice Tate rolled her eyes and walked toward the men in the center of the store. She was fourteen, tall like her father, and suddenly running more to woman than to girl. Her hair fell in cornrows around a wide and pretty face.

“Denice,” said Cootch, saving her from her old man. “Got somethin’ for you here.”

He pulled a cassette tape from under the counter, handed it to Denice.

“What’s this?” she said, inspecting the unlabeled tape.

“Rare Essence,” said Cootch, “live at Anacostia Park, nineteen hundred and eighty.”

Her eyes widened. “Dag, you got this?”

“First generation, off my personal master. Take care of it, girl, it’s precious.”

“Thanks, Cootch. They say this be bumpin’!”

“They say this is bumpin’,” corrected Tate, and once again Denice rolled her eyes.

“Bumping,” said Karras to Tate. “You dropped your g there, Clarence. Just thought I’d point it out.”

“Thanks, Professor. Was wonderin’ why the boss man keeps your Greek ass around.”

Clay was looking through the window and out to the street, where a fine-looking white woman had gotten out of one of those Lee Iacocca cookie-cutter sedans and was crossing, heading toward the store. Ankle-high black boots with a short, tight skirt, black stockings, a jean jacket over a purple sweater — one of Dimitri’s friends, no doubt.

“Hey, Mitri,” said Clay, pointing his chin toward the street. “What you think about a woman wears shorty boots with a skirt like that?”

“That’s her hookup, I guess. You gotta admit, on her it looks good.”

“Yes, it does.” Clay liked the way she walked, too, not just the hip action, but the determination in her step. “You think she’s lost or somethin’, comin’ in for directions?”

Karras smiled. “No, she’s not lost. She’s comin’ to see me.”

“I’m just messin’ with you, man. I knew who she was comin’ to see.”

“You could tell, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Clay. “She looks like one of yours.”

Clay expected a response to that one, but Karras hadn’t heard the cut. He was already headed for the front door.

“What’s going on?” said Karras to Cootch.

“I don’t know for sure,” said Cootch, “but it looks pretty bad.”

Karras and Donna went by Denice, who stood by the plate glass window next to her father, a little behind him and to the side, her hand touching his hip.

Karras pushed through the door. Donna followed him outside. A car was in the air, suspended and burning on the end of a flatbed truck parked in the construction median. People stood on the opposite sidewalk, watching quietly, a couple of them just a step or two out in the street, but not too far because of the heat and smoke. A squad car had pulled over and a couple of uniformed cops, one black and one white, were out and asking the ones who had begun to close in to step back. An ambulance was traveling west down U, with the heavier siren of a fire truck not far behind.

Donna saw Eddie’s Plymouth going east, then the red of his taillights, then the Plymouth turning left. Donna thought, Maybe the cops told Eddie to get the hell off the street. He’d circle around the block, pick her up.

“Be right back,” said Karras.

Donna said, “I’ll be here.” She reached into her jean jacket and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it, pulled hard on it, kept the smoke deep in her lungs; nothing better than nicotine over cocaine.

Karras met Clay, who was stepping back away from the car, in the street.

“Marcus.”

“Hey, man. Where you been?”

“In the back with my friend.”

“In the back, huh?”

“We heard the noise and came out. What happened?”

“Damn if I know.”

Karras stepped toward the car. Clay grabbed ahold of his arm, held him back. Karras saw something in Marcus’s eyes, stopped walking.

“What is it?”

“You don’t want to see that, Dimitri. Been a long time since I seen that kind of shit my own self. Saw it plenty in the war, but... shit.”

“What?”

“Boy got his head tore off, man. One of those I beams went through the windshield of that Buick, ripped that mothafucker right off his shoulders.”

“All right,” said Karras. “I’m not going near it. I’ll stay right here.”

They watched the rescue squad clue the fire department in. They watched the fire department extinguish what was left of the flames.

Donna Morgan looked across at Dimitri Karras. Karras wore his cat eye — lens Vuarnets, his gray hair moussed and spiked. He sat low in the driver’s seat of the 325, his right hand working the stick.

Karras in a Beamer. Spiked hair and Vuarnets. If the yuppies had a coat of arms, it would be those sunglasses, that haircut, this car. She wasn’t surprised that Karras had adopted the uniform. Karras had always worn masks.

She had met him at College Park, when she was a student and he taught American lit. That was the seventies, when he still wore the Shaggy Professor mask — longish hair, droopy Wyatt Earp mustache, corduroy sport jacket over Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Clydes on his feet. He had that casual thing down cold with his students — I’m older than you but, hey, I’m one of you — and also a rep with the girls. Men who were sexually aggressive didn’t scare Donna. They never had. And besides, Karras was cute. The first day of class, when his eyes flashed on hers from the front to the back of the room, she knew he was going to be inside her. It was just a question of when.

Karras wasn’t much of a teacher. He claimed to love books, but seemed wary of overanalyzing them. The syllabus required that the students read six assigned novels over the course of the semester and show up for class twice a week. There would be a final because there had to be a final, but Karras assured them it would be lightly weighted against their overall participation in the weekly discussion, which tended to concern the book at hand only marginally. To no one’s surprise — he always looked a little stoned — Karras admitted his love of marijuana one day to everyone in the room. At undergrad Maryland U, this was akin to pulling one’s finger out of the dike. After his confession, a majority of his students began to meet out on the mall, where kids played Frisbee and caught sun and walked bandanna-clad dogs, and get smoked up together before his class. The discussions thereafter were sometimes heated, momentarily interesting, frequently incoherent, and instantly forgotten. At the time, the word on campus was that Dimitri Karras’s class was “really deep.”

Donna Morgan nailed Karras behind his desk after class one afternoon about three weeks into the semester. There was little verbal foreplay before she brazenly cupped a handful of his jeans. She straddled him on his chair and gave him the goods, really pushed it out. He had this smile on his face, this I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck-About-Nothin’ smile, that should have hipped her to his character. He never even said, “Maybe we shouldn’t,” or even the more cowardly “Do you think we should?” There was no ethical question raised because neither of them thought to bring it up. Teaching was just something Karras was doing on the way to something else, and Donna attended classes with naked disinterest and a blind eye to the future. Indeed, Karras ankled his position at the end of the semester. Donna dropped out of school at the same time and never returned.

They had stayed boyfriend and girlfriend for a few months into the new year. He began to move dope in quantity, and she took a salesclerk job out at the Hecht’s in Wheaton Plaza. They broke up, for reasons Donna could not now remember, sometime in the spring. Donna heard later from a friend that Dimitri had gotten into some unspecified bad shit in the summer of ’76, and that he had given up wholesale for retail — records, that is.

Over the next ten years, she ran into him maybe twice. Once down on 19th Street in 1980, when they were both standing in line to see Raging Bull at the Dupont. On that night, Dimitri wore a new mask: an Elvis Costello pompadour and a deep-weave overcoat with heavily oilskin shoes, straight off the cover of Get Happy, his retro Teddy Boy look. She saw him a couple of years later at the Wax Museum, Graham Parker’s Real Macaw tour. Karras wore a black sport jacket, pointed Italian shoes, and a skinny black tie, like the Special Beat Service boys coming off the plane. Karras had begun to go gray.

On those occasions when cocaine brought them back together, she called him Mr. Karras. It was an unsubtle jab at their age difference, but also a reminder of their teacher/student history. Karras didn’t seem to get it. If he did, he didn’t care.

Mask or no, Donna had to admit that Dimitri Karras looked good behind the wheel of his BMW. Rumpled, waved out, or yuppified, the man always had style.

“Nice car,” said Donna.

“You think?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I didn’t want to be one of them. But I saw this on the lot and fell in love. The navy over burgundy combo, it’s bad, isn’t it?”

Donna ran her hand over the leather seat. “It’s really nice.”

“I been workin’ hard these last few years. I had the money. No kids to support, nothin’ like that, so...”

“You don’t have to apologize. Everybody’s making money these days. You gotta spend it on something, right?” Donna looked out the window. They were coming into Georgetown via M. “Where we going?”

“I’ve got to stop by the store, check in.”

Marcus had told him to go home. But Karras would call Marcus from the Georgetown store, score a few points, let him know he was still on the case.

Karras said, “Where were you and Eddie off to tonight?”

“Echo and the Bunnymen at Lisner. I left the tickets in his visor.”

“Funny, him taking off like that.”

“I know. I wonder why he booked.”

Karras looked over at Donna in her seat, the cut of her black-stockinged thigh. Karras hadn’t mentioned his conversation with Marcus to Donna. He was glad Eddie Golden had taken off. He didn’t care about Eddie heisting a pillowcase out of some drug car. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want Donna to know, not tonight. He wanted Donna alone.

“Well,” said Donna, “I guess that takes care of the concert.”

“Look, we’ll call Eddie in a little while, find out what happened. With that crash so close to him, he probably got spooked is all. Maybe you guys can still make the show. Anyway, if you ask me, he did you a favor, taking off with those tickets.”

“Aw, come on, the Bunnymen rock.”

“The Bunnymen suck.”

“Okay. What were you going to do tonight?”

“I don’t know. Check out some music, I guess.”

“You know,” said Donna, “if Eddie doesn’t turn up, I got nothin’ to do.”

“Eddie doesn’t show,” said Karras, “it’s you and me.”

Donna stifled a smile. The situation couldn’t be better. She had a virgin gram in the pocket of her skirt, and she was riding in a new Beamer with a good-looking man behind the wheel.

Karras was a sprinter, and Eddie went long distance. She figured, whatever happened tonight, Eddie would be around in the morning. She hoped Eddie wouldn’t post tonight.

“Mr. Karras?”

“Huh?”

“If we goin’ out, I’m gonna need some cigarettes.”

Karras cut up 34th, hooked a left onto P Street, found a parking space up near Wisconsin. Karras and Donna had a couple of quick spoons, left the car. Donna stopped in Neam’s market for two packs of Marlboro Lights — she could go through two decks easy behind a night of cocaine — and then the two of them walked south on Wisconsin Avenue toward the store.

They passed a Mean Feet, the city’s premier shoe boutique. A salesman named Randolph stood outside, leaning against the display window, smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, man,” said Karras, “what’s goin’ on?”

“Ain’t nothin’ to it,” said Randolph. “Just tryin’ to make a livin’ out here. How those Zodiacs treatin’ you?”

Karras looked down at the black leather lace-ups on his feet, rubber soled, utilitarian. Randolph had sold them to Karras, and they were his favorite pair of kicks.

“Treatin’ me good.”

“Got some Zodiac boots, too, nice low heels, got your name on ’em.”

“I’ll be in soon.”

“You, too, girlfriend,” said Randolph to Donna. “Time for you to come on in and see the footdiatrist.”

Donna laughed. “Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m serious, baby. Not that those shorties you got on don’t look good on them legs of yours. Mm-mm-mm.”

“We’ll be back,” said Karras.

“I know you will. And when you do, don’t forget to ask for Shoedog.”

They kept walking. They passed Commander Salamander, where rich kids from Potomac and McLean came downtown to get their hair dyed pink and buy their bondage “punk” look from the middle-aged proprietors. Well, thought Karras, at least the kids are having fun. Everyone these days is having big fun.

Karras could deal with Georgetown: the lack of parking, the panhandlers, the gimmick bars serving shitty draft beer to Northern Virginia kids on weekend nights, the suburbanites and the crowds, the Iranian and Iraqi merchants selling off-brand clothing and shoes, the “jewelers” pushing gold chains to the drug kids driving in from across town. Marcus Clay couldn’t deal with Georgetown, so this had become Karras’s turf by default. You needed a record store in this part of town if you wanted to be in the business in D.C.

The demand for music was big down here. Two years earlier, a monstrous crowd had pushed through the plate glass window of Kemp Mill Records during an in-store appearance of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. That same year, when a rumor surfaced that Prince had been seen window-shopping on M Street, scores of purple-clad kids had descended on Georgetown in hopes of spotting His Royal Badness. Yeah, Marcus hated G-town, but Karras never tired of reminding him that Wisconsin and O was his top-volume store.

Karras went into the store. Donna Morgan stayed out front, lit up a smoke.

The store was narrow and deep, generally unclean and dimly lit. The new Falco, “Rock Me Amadeus,” boomed from the stereo and pumped the house. The manager, Scott, greeted Karras right away with a handshake and a smile.

“Hey, Dimitri. What’s the word?”

“Johannesburg.”

Scott was on the heavy side, his face acned from junk food. He wore his shoe polish — black hair short except for a thick lock that fell in front of his face. Marcus had complained about the look, and Karras had shrugged it off, saying it was “a Flock of Seagulls thing.” Marcus had said, “A flock of douche bags, maybe. Tell him to get his hair the fuck on out of his face.”

But Scott was a good manager, steady and into it, and Marcus soon forgot about the hair. Karras knew that protecting the good employees from Marcus’s sometimes grumpy moods was part of his job. Marcus was under a shitload of pressure these days, and Karras understood.

Karras had a quick look around. Scott was ringing a two-person line at the register. Other customers roved the store, suburban white kids with money to spend. Karras transferred the new Bananarama and the new Miami Sound Machine to the front display. He said hello to a clerk named Mary, a dark-haired Brit with whom he had tongue-wrestled at last year’s Christmas party. No regrets.

The coke was good. Karras was moving fast, he could feel the tick-tick-tick of blood through his veins; he five-slapped Mary’s palm as he passed her in the aisle.

When Scott had finished, Karras asked him to get a reading off the register. Scott did it, handed Karras the cutoff tape. The numbers were typical for a Friday. Karras dialed the U Street store, asked Cootch for Marcus.

“Marcus drove Tate home,” said Cootch.

“Marcus calls in, tell him I phoned from G-town, hear?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Any business over there?”

“Nothin’. They’re still out there, blockin’ the street.”

“All right, man. You take care.”

“You, too.”

Karras cradled the receiver. He clapped Scott a little too hard on the arm.

“Okay, Scott, I’m outta here. And don’t bother calling the other stores.”

“Calling the other stores?”

“Yeah, you know, like you managers always do, to warn them that I’m making the rounds. ’Cause I am gone for the day.”

“Okay, Dimitri. See you, man.”

Karras gave Mary a nice smile — you never knew — and left the store. Donna was out front, working on her second smoke.

“Come on,” said Karras.

“Where to?”

“My place. I need a quick shower. Then we’re gone.”

“Gonna have fun tonight,” said Donna.

“Gonna Wang Chung tonight,” said Karras. “Let’s go.”

Richard Tutt stepped out of his Bronco. Kevin Murphy closed the door of his Trans Am, met Tutt in the yard. They moved toward the house, walking between the black 300 and Tyrell’s black BMW 633. To the side of the house, Tutt saw Jumbo Linney’s beat-to-shit, primered ’82 Supra, the two-tone model that made Spics catch wood.

Tutt wore street clothes, a Members Only jacket over a denim shirt worn out, his .45 tucked beneath the band of his acid-washed jeans. Murphy noticed that Tutt had on those gray ostrich-skin Dan Post boots with the three-inch heels, the ones Tutt thought were so fly. Tutt’s flattop was gelled, shaved back and sides, no burns, the back of his neck rolled and pink as a baby’s ass.

“Tyrell’s gonna be all over it tonight,” said Tutt.

“Heard that,” said Murphy.

“You let me do the talkin’, partner.”

“You got it, King.”

They had come out East Capitol, crossed the Whitney M. Young Bridge over the Anacostia River into P.G. County, taken Central Avenue for a couple of miles through Seat Pleasant and on into a spare mix of residential and commercial structures, gas stations, half-rented strip shopping centers, and the occasional fast food outlet. Back behind one of those strip centers, where only a TV repair shop and a dry cleaner remained in business, was a rocky field split by the access road. The road continued another quarter mile, went to gravel, ended at an old bungalow backed up to a shallow woods of maple and oak. With the strip center forming a one-story concrete barrier and the stand of trees semicircling the right side of the house, the bungalow could not be seen from 214.

About a year back, a Capitol Heights friend had told Tyrell about the For Rent sign out on the highway. Tyrell liked the idea of being out of the city, and when he saw the house, he especially liked how it was kind of tucked back against the woods. He had this coke-whore girlfriend, white freak, a real estate broker named Kerry King. For the free blow he was laying on her and all that good dick she was getting, Kerry had been more than happy to put her name on the lease.

Tutt and Murphy stepped up onto the bungalow’s porch. Tutt knocked, and Alan Rogers opened the scarred oak door and stepped aside. Tutt and Murphy entered the house.

“You don’t mind,” said Tyrell, “if I don’t get up.”

“Gentlemen,” said Tutt, stepping into the room with his stiff weight lifter’s gait, his beefy arms pumping him forward, the arms way out at his side.

Murphy scoped the house. Two large rooms, once used as living and dining areas. A stereo, a wide-screen, and a couch and table arrangement where the dining area had been. Jumbo Linney and Chink Bennet sat on the leather couch, laughing and getting high. They had barely acknowledged the cops’ entrance. Beyond the couch was an open entrance to a kitchen. The living room contained Tyrell’s reclining chair, several folding chairs, a round oak table, and a fireplace, which Tyrell liked to keep live. Murphy knew the layout of the rest of the house: a hallway to the right of the dining area, a bathroom splitting two small bedrooms, a stairwell leading up to an unfinished attic. Murphy and his wife, Wanda, lived in a bungalow just like this one, on 4th and Whittier on the D.C. side of Takoma Park.

Alan Rogers closed the door, went over to the table where Monroe sat, found himself a chair. Kevin Murphy positioned himself behind Tutt, leaned against the door frame, folded his arms. Tutt stood before Tyrell. None of them had made a move to shake hands. That they wouldn’t was understood.

“So,” said Tyrell.

“Yeah,” said Tutt. “Lotta action today.”

Tutt smiled cordially, kept smiling as he had a quick look around the place. Mutt and Jeff were back on the couch, cooking their heads on some ragweed, listening to some kind of mindless rap. Tutt could see a gun, looked like a nine, sitting on the table in front of them amidst the clutter of someone’s old lunch. To his right, Tyrell’s enforcer, Short Man Monroe, sat at the round table, a toothpick in his mouth, polishing one of his two Glocks with a lambskin cloth. Tutt could have laughed out loud: It would be just like a nigger to polish a plastic gun. The Rogers kid — Tutt made him as soft — had taken a seat at the table next to Monroe. On the table: an LED readout scale, a mirror with a couple of grams of coke heaped on top, a blade lying next to the coke, an automatic money-counting machine, a brown paper bag holding cash or bricks. A Mossberg pistol-grip, pump-action shotgun leaned barrel up against the bricks above the hearth. With all the McDonald’s wrappers, empty chip bags, and half-drunk Big Gulps sitting around, Tutt wondered if any of these geniuses would be able to find his hardware if anything went down.

“About today,” said Tyrell.

“You mean Junie,” said Tutt.

“Uh-huh.”

“Junie’s car was empty.”

“No pillowcase. No twenty-five grand.”

“Nothin’.”

“I saw him put it in the car myself before he left to make the buy.”

“Maybe Junie got greedy, stashed the bundle somewhere before the accident.”

“I don’t think so.”

Short Man raised his head. “Junie wasn’t smart enough to plan nothin’ like that.”

“Or stupid enough,” said Tyrell, “to try and take me off.”

“I don’t know what happened to it,” said Tutt.

“No?”

Tutt motioned toward Rogers and Monroe. “They were there. Maybe you ought to ask your boys.”

Short Man stopped polishing his gun. He stared at the floor, rearranged the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“I’ll ask them what I want to ask them,” said Tyrell. “Right now I’m asking you.”

“Me and Murphy,” said Tutt, “one way or another, we’re gonna find out what happened to your money, Tyrell.”

Tyrell stared at Murphy. Murphy held the stare. “That’s what I’m payin’ you two for. Right, Officer Murphy?”

Tutt cleared his throat. “Okay. So we’ll start with some of those neighborhood rummies down there, see what we can dig up.”

“Yo, Tutt,” said Alan Rogers. “You might want to talk with that kid, too.”

“What kid?”

“One stands out front of Medger’s all the time.”

“Yeah,” said Tutt. “I know the kid you mean.”

Murphy thought back on the conversation he’d had with Anthony Taylor. “I saw what happened,” the kid had said. And when Murphy had told him that a lot of people had seen what had gone down, the kid had said, “After, too.” Like he’d seen something else.

“I’ll talk to the kid,” said Murphy.

“Well,” said Tyrell, smiling. “The man speaks.”

“That youngun always be there,” said Monroe. “Calls himself Tony the Tiger, some shit like that.”

“Calls himself T,” said Murphy. He repeated, “I’ll talk to the kid.”

“Don’t care who talks to who,” said Tyrell. “Long as I get what’s mine.”

Linney and Bennet laughed raucously from the other room. They had turned the porno tape back on, and Chink Bennet was in front of the set, air-humping Suzie Wong.

“I thought I told y’all to cut that tape off,” said Tyrell.

Bennet pointed at Linney. “Jumbo did it, Tyrell.”

“Damn, Chink, why you be lyin’ like that?”

“Turn it off and come in here. We talkin’ business; I want y’all to know what’s up.”

Tutt nodded at the silent man in the hard chair. “Who’s the new man, Tyrell?”

“Antony Ray. Cousin of mine. Just got out of Lorton, three weeks back. Served four on an eight-year armed robbery bit. Not sure what his role’s gonna be with us, but I am sure he’ll fit in somewhere. Right, cuz?”

Antony Ray nodded.

“Antony’s great-uncle,” said Tyrell, “was a big man down on Seventh Street, way back in the forties. Fellow by the name of DeAngelo Ray.”

“Yeah,” said Tutt. “Good to know we got some royalty bloodlines comin’ into the organization.” Tutt tilted his chin up at Ray. “Nice meetin’ you, An-tony.”

Ray said nothing.

Murphy said, “Gonna get me some water out the back.”

Murphy walked into the kitchen. A couple of girls were back there, couldn’t have been more than sixteen. They were dancing in place to the Whodini record playing in the other room. One of them, wearing a tight barber pole — striped shirt, looked him over as he passed. Murphy nodded. The girls giggled. Murphy saw a vanity mirror lying on the kitchen counter with lines tracked out on it, and a rolled twenty lying next to the lines. Murphy found a clean glass in a cabinet, ran some tap water into the glass. He drank the water with his eyes closed as he leaned over the sink.

“What’s goin’ on, Stuff?” said one of the girls.

“You big, too,” said the other, and both of them laughed.

This is wrong. I’m wrong. Father in heaven, this is all wrong.

Murphy placed the glass in the sink, walked out of the kitchen and back to the front of the house.

When he got there, Tyrell was looking up at Tutt, saying, “So you didn’t catch them.”

“No,” said Tutt. “I had the one kid dead to rights in the alley. Would’ve caught his ass, too, if it wasn’t for all the obstacles your people got set up back there.”

“You know who these boys are?”

“I know,” said Monroe. “One of them calls himself Chief.”

“The kid I chased, he was wearin’ some bright green knit cap. Kid might as well go on and wear a target next time.”

“They just younguns, Ty,” said Rogers. “They be playin’ like they in the life.”

“They tryin’ to beat me on my own strip,” said Tyrell. “Ain’t no game to me.”

“We’ll take care of it,” said Tutt.

“Not if I take care of that shit first,” said Monroe.

Tutt said, “This ain’t about makin’ noise, Tyrell. This ain’t about startin’ a war. This is about control.”

“Man’s right, Short,” said Tyrell. “We don’t want no high drama. Just want to keep everything nice and quiet down there. Under control. Why we got our men in blue here on our side.”

Linney and Bennet laughed, touched hands.

Murphy said, “Let’s go, Tutt.”

“Hey, King Tutt,” said Bennet. “Those are some sporty shitkickers you got on, man. Where you goin’ tonight, some kind of hoedown and shit?”

“What, you don’t like my boots, Chink? And here I was gettin’ ready to say somethin’ to you about that suit you’re wearin’.”

Bennet looked down at his lime green parachute-material jogging suit as if he were seeing it for the first time. “This suit is bad!”

“It’s bad, all right. Matter of fact, I’d own two of them if I was you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. One to shit on and one to cover it up with.”

No one laughed. Murphy saw Monroe point the Glock at Tutt, mouth the word pow.

“Let’s go, Tutt.”

“Yes,” said Tyrell, “maybe you two better get on your way.”

Tyrell stood from his chair, uncoiling his gangly frame. Tyrell went six foot six. He was light-skinned and freckled, with long equine features, a hint of beard, pointed teeth, pointed ears. Reminded Murphy of one of those stone figures perched atop white people’s churches.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” said Tutt.

“Find my money,” said Tyrell.

Tutt nodded and made an elaborate good-bye wave of his hand to Monroe. He and Murphy walked from the house, heard the door shut behind them.

In the yard, Tutt looked back at the house and grinned. “Shit. An-tony Ray. Couldn’t be just ‘Anthony,’ had to be ‘An-tony.’ And you hear Ty-rell in there? ‘I’ll ax them what I want to ax them. Right now I’m axin’ you.’ ”

“He said ‘ask.’ ”

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“All right, partner. I’ll check with you tomorrow, hear?”

“Yeah. See you then.”

Tutt climbed up into the Bronco with the oversized tires. Murphy settled into his new Trans Am. He hit the ignition and drove back out to 214.

Donna Morgan stood at the left corner of the stage at the 9:30, drinking down the last of her beer. Dimitri Karras was pushing through the crowd, a couple of Buds in his upraised hands, trying to get to Donna.

The bass man, second guitar, and drummer were out and prepping their instruments while “How Soon Is Now” played through the sound system. This would be the single Karras would think of when he thought 1986, the way “Brass in Pocket” would always mean 1980 and “Dancing with Myself” would always trigger 1981 in his head.

He got to Donna, handed her a beer. She leaned against the black wall and drank. Her forehead was bulleted with sweat. The place was ass-to-elbow, humid year round, and always smelled like something between piss and perspiration. It was the best live music venue in town.

Karras had wanted her to see the headliner, Tommy Keene, telling her that this was what the “real shit” was all about. He had talked about it all the way downtown, as they traded hits from Karras’s amber vial, and down the long hall entrance to the club, where Cure-cut Robert Smith look-alikes in long overcoats and other kids in mostly black lounged around, talking and smoking cigarettes. Karras was so excited that Donna didn’t have the heart to remind him that she had been in the audience the night Keene opened for Graham Parker at the Wax, the same night she had run into Karras when he had affected his new-wave mask. Karras had always been slow on the uptake when it came to memories; he liked to say that he “lived in the moment,” which Donna knew was his way of sugarcoating but not excusing his thoughtless nature.

Keene came out in a vintage sport jacket and jeans, and launched into a set of propulsive, guitar-driven pop from his new album, Songs from the Film. L.A. and Geffen had him for the time being, but he would always be the mid-Atlantic Alex Chilton, and he would always be D.C.’s. After the bridge of “Baby Face,” when the break built and crested into the chorus, Keene closed-eyed and singing right up to the mike, the band driving and tight, the whole club had gone forward to the stage, and in the crush, Karras’s arm had gotten around Donna’s shoulders, and he was thinking, as the cocaine and alcohol married beautifully in his brain, This is One of Those Nights, and maybe I won’t die, just maybe I will live forever.

Karras leaned into Donna at the end of the first set, told her it was time to go. There was another band he wanted to see tonight across town. Donna shrugged, said all right. Karras tipped Mike, the front-of-the-house tender, on the way out the door. Out in the night, they felt the electric shock of cold air against their sweat. Karras put his arm around Donna to warm her as they walked west on F. Then he stopped, turned her toward him, kissed her at the head of the alley a few doors down from the club. Her tongue, rough as a cat’s, slid across his. He could feel the warmth of her groin as he pushed himself against her. She moved back a step, brushed damp hair away from her face, and smiled.

All right, he thought. I’m in.

Clarence Tate looked at the March calendar that the Ibex Club sent out to all the folks on their mailing list. He figured Denice would be out for a few hours at Ashley’s house. He thought he’d treat himself for a change, go out, have himself a drink.

He put on a sport jacket over an open-collar shirt, got into his newly tuned Cutlass Supreme, and headed out, listening to an old Stylistics tape on the stereo all the way uptown. He parked off Georgia and Missouri, a block south of the club. He knew one of the club’s owners, a dude he had gone to Roosevelt with, now on the D.C. boxing commission. He mentioned this dude’s name to the doorman, who nodded to a second doorman, which meant he had beat the cover. The first doorman ran one of those U-shaped metal detectors over his clothes before letting him in. Something new here, but he could dig it, what with all the guns out there now. Still and all, the Ibex was a pretty nice place.

Tate went up red carpeted stairs. He passed the landing on the second floor, where he could see younger people congregated and hear the thump of bass from a hip-hop group playing in the adjoining hall. He continued on up to the third floor and went into the big room. It was people closer to his age here, dressed nicely, drinking from glasses, listening to the man up on the stage.

Tate ordered a Remy with a side of ice water, leaned against the bar. He closed his eyes for a moment, listened to Gil Scott-Heron’s rich voice singing the beautiful words to “95 South,” one of Tate’s favorite songs. Gil was solo tonight, just him and his piano, right for this setting. He looked thinner than the last time Tate had seen him, and his hair had gone gray.

Tate remembered how he used to play the Winter in America LP for Denice, sing her to sleep when “Your Daddy Loves You” came around. What was that, ten years gone already? Damn, she was growing up too fast.

At the set break, Tate struck up a conversation with a woman at the bar. She was a handsome woman with a nice way about her, heavy in the hips and with plenty of leg on her, but that was all right. Tate was no show prize either, what with the weight he’d put on.

They talked with one another and had a few laughs. The two of them had a real nice evening. The woman had an easy smile. He got her phone number before he left. She seemed a little surprised that he didn’t at least try to make a play for her that night. But he hadn’t even considered it. He had to be getting back home to Denice, and anyway, it wouldn’t be proper to bring a woman back to the house with him. Not while he was trying to set an example for his sweet little girl.

Short Man Monroe curbed the Z. He pulled his keys from the ignition, came out of the car with the Glock in his hand and pointed up in the air. He ran into the alley.

He could see that green hat even in the dark. The head of some other young boy, too, waggin’ back and forth as he ran next to the one who called himself Chief.

“Yo, man, hold up!” screamed Monroe. He jumped over a tire, landed clean, kept going without breaking his stride.

Wesley said, “P-Square!”

“Chief!”

Their voices sounded funny to them, mixed with their hard breath, running all out like they were.

“Go right, man,” said Wesley. “I’ll meet you on our street!”

“Okay!”

James Willets turned abruptly, ran straight for someone’s backyard fence. He had the action figure out of his pocket, clutched tightly in his fist. He knew he’d have to leap that fence clean...

“Peter Parker,” said James. “Fly!”

And he was over the fence with barely a touch, heading into the darkness of the side yard and out the front, adrenaline pushing him on, his feet hardly lighting on the dead grass and then the asphalt of the street.

“You!” shouted Monroe. He had let the skinny one go, was concentrating on the one called Chief. He was gaining on him now.

Wesley Meadows cut hard coming out of the alley and booked west on S. A woman was walking down the sidewalk; Meadows danced around her, kept right on.

Monroe came around the corner, almost ran right into some fool woman carrying grocery bags. She looked into Monroe’s eyes, looked at the automatic in his hand. Her own eyes widened. She hurried past with her head down, staring at the sidewalk and her feet.

Monroe ran a few more steps, slowed down and stopped. He bent forward to catch his breath.

“Damn,” he said.

He stood up straight. That woman would remember him. Stupid to finish this tonight. Kid was plain lucky she came on them like she did. He slipped the Glock in the waistband of his jeans.

Monroe looked down S. Around 12th, under a streetlamp, he saw the kid in the green cap stop and look back, jump up and down cheerleader style, wave his arms. What, did this little mothafucker think Monroe was playin’? And what was that he was holding up in his hand? Looked like... goddamn, it was, some kind of gun.

“You done sealed your doom, Chief,” said Monroe, narrowing his eyes, watching the kid, watching the smoke of his own breath. “Now you’re gonna die for sure.”

Richard Tutt saw the Z coming down U at about the same time that Kevin Murphy entered the market to pick up some chocolate for his wife. He flashed his lights, and the Z pulled over to the curb. Tutt got out of his Bronco just as Monroe and Rogers and some young girl got out of the Z.

Rogers and the girl hung back as Monroe walked toward Tutt in that slow, deep-dip way of his, a toothpick dangling from between his lips. Tutt thought, What I wouldn’t give to slap that toothpick out of that little nigger’s mouth.

“Wha’sup, Tutt?” said Monroe. “Where go your darker half?”

“My partner’s in the store. He’ll be right out.”

“What brings y’all out tonight?”

“Just checking out our neighborhood.”

“Your neighborhood. You own it now, huh?”

“The good citizens own it. I’m just the caretaker.”

“Whatever you say, big man.”

Tutt grinned. He reached behind him like he was hitching up his jeans.

“Here’s a joke for you, Short.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“What did Marvin Gaye’s father say to him right before he smoked him?”

“What?”

Tutt pulled his gun, racked the receiver, pointed it in Monroe’s face, in one fluid motion.

Tutt said, “This is the last forty-five you’ll ever hear.”

Monroe didn’t even twitch. If this white boy wanted to high-noon it out here, he was ready for it any time. And he didn’t give a fuck if he was a cop.

Tutt laughed. “Don’t you get it, Short? Marvin Gaye. Forty-five, as in forty-five caliber. As in forty-five RPMs.”

“I get it. It just ain’t all that funny, Tutt.”

Alan Rogers put his arm around Denice Tate. He stroked her arm, could feel her shiver beneath his touch.

Tutt replaced his Colt in the waistband of his jeans. A car approached. None of them looked directly at the car as it slowed and then accelerated and passed. In his side vision, Tutt only noticed that the car was one of those French jobs that were all the rage these days with the city’s spades.

Murphy came out of the market holding a package of Turtles, Wanda’s favorite chocolate.

“What’s goin’ on?” said Murphy, trying to break the strange silence he had walked into. He stood behind Tutt, always behind him, because Tutt would cowboy it without thought if anything went down. Tutt would protect him, take that first hit. Murphy thought he saw contempt in Monroe’s eyes, and maybe disappointment in Rogers’s. Both of them knew what Murphy knew himself: that he didn’t have the same kind of balls-out courage as the white cop.

“Your partner, he just tellin’ jokes, Officer Murphy,” said Monroe.

“What you got there, Rogers?” said Tutt, nodding at the girl, looking her over slowly, letting Rogers know, law-of-the-jungle style, that he could make the girl his own if that’s what he wanted to do. “Got you some new stuff, man?”

Rogers held Denice close.

“She looks fine, too,” said Tutt with an ugly smile and a wink at Murphy. “Don’t she, Murph?”

Shut your mouth. Just shut it, man, for once. And don’t look at her like that. Shit, can’t you see that she ain’t nothin’ but a kid? Even you ought to have enough decency to see that.

“Let’s go,” said Murphy.

“Yeah,” said Tutt. “We got work to do. You geniuses have yourselves a good night.”

Tutt and Murphy walked back to the truck. Monroe’s voice stopped them.

“Yo, King Tutt. I ran into Chief tonight, that young boy been tryin’ to move into our strip.”

Tutt turned around. “Yeah?”

“Gonna take care of that my own self, Tutt. Gonna do your job for you, man.”

“You ain’t qualified to have no job, Short.”

Monroe smiled, transferred the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “We’ll see.”

Monroe, Rogers, and Denice Tate watched the two cops get back in the Bronco. They watched them drive away.

“I’m cold,” said Denice.

“I know it, baby,” said Rogers. “So am I.”

“I want to go home, Alan.”

Rogers said, “Let’s go, black.”

Monroe said, “We gone.”

Dimitri Karras and Donna Morgan drove over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge into Virginia. Donna stared out the window at the Potomac, the sunlight winking off the swells. She kept a hand up to shade her burning eyes, and also to mask her face. Though she could barely breathe through her nose, she could smell the nicotine and beer on her wrinkled clothes. She looked every day her age and a couple of hundred more. She felt like a twenty-dollar whore.

She appreciated that Karras hadn’t tried to engage her in conversation. At least he’d been decent enough for that.

The night before, neither of them had been able to shut their mouths. They couldn’t talk fast enough, couldn’t wait for the other one to finish a sentence before starting in on one of their own. Every statement, every opinion, had seemed so profound. Donna’s jaw ached now from all that talk. She couldn’t remember a word they’d said.

She remembered the sex, though. Even from her current perspective, a sick, pale rider with an awful case of cokeover depression, she could still remember the sex. After the ice cubes they had done it straight and sweaty, and it had been good. Her legs kicked out and her toes got pointed, and when it was done, the two of them had managed to move the bed halfway across the room. Yeah, Karras was still a cock star in the bedroom, but there wasn’t much more to him than that. When Donna thought of Karras, she pictured a beautifully wrapped present with nothing inside the box.

“Donna?”

“Huh?”

“I was talking to Marcus this morning while you were taking a shower.”

“Yeah? What about?”

“Your friend Eddie.”

“What about him?”

Karras breathed out slowly. “Marcus saw Eddie take something out of that burning car yesterday. The car was a drug car, Donna. I got to figure that’s why Eddie booked, left you down on U.”

“A drug car.”

Karras nodded, looked straight ahead. “Kid who got burned up was either a dealer or a runner, one of the two.”

“You saying that Eddie took drugs out of the car?”

“Marcus thought it might have been money.”

Donna felt her heart race. She went into her purse, pushed a crumpled pack of smokes out of the way, found a nearly empty pack, and pulled free a bent cigarette.

Karras pushed the lighter into the dash. “Thought you might want to know.”

Donna thought of Eddie, nervous as he was. How it must have been for him, to do the act and then to live with it last night. Eddie doing something bold like that, it must have been something to see.

And Donna thought of Marcus Clay. If Marcus had seen something like that, what would he have done? Donna was certain he would have told his best friend right away.

“So,” said Donna, “Marcus just got around to mentioning it to you today, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“He wasn’t sure until today, I guess. Or maybe he forgot in all that confusion. Hell, Donna, I don’t know.”

You know. He told you yesterday, Mr. Karras. You knew I wouldn’t have hung with you last night if I had any idea that Eddie was in trouble. You wanted to fuck me first before you cut me loose.

“I want to go home, Dimitri.”

“I’ll drop you right after I check in on Arlington.”

“I need cigarettes.”

“There’s a Seven-Eleven next to the store.”

The lighter popped out. Donna touched the hot end to her cigarette and coughed out her first drag of the day. She looked at Karras full on, no longer embarrassed at her appearance.

Karras cracked the window and relaxed. He’d been silent until they hit Virginia, debating on whether or not to give her the news. He was glad now that he’d gotten it over with. He thought he came off pretty well.

Marcus Clay felt pretty good about Georgetown’s first half. They had held their own so far against Michigan State, with Scott Skiles, the Spartans’ star guard, only going one for seven from the field. If the Hoyas could contain Skiles, Clay figured they had a chance.

“Got a whole ’nother half to play, though,” said Clarence Tate, who was doing some book work at the desk in the back office where Clay was watching the game.

“Yeah, I know,” said Clay. “Want me to turn this up?”

“I can hear it.”

“I’m gonna go out and hang on the floor for a little bit while they got this halftime bullshit goin’ on.”

“Cootch is out there. Ain’t all that much to handle.”

“Don’t remind me. Maybe I’ll go out on U, rope some people in.”

“Like we used to do, talkin’ to the girls walking up the avenue: ‘Come on in and get ’em today, ladies, everything is everything at Real Right, we got the sounds gonna help you get down.’ ”

Marcus chuckled. “Yeah, shit was more simple back in the seventies, wasn’t it? And much more fun.”

“Don’t be layin’ that nostalgia trip on me, Marcus. A business either grows or it dies. Remember when you were a kid, how your legs used to ache at night when you were lyin’ in bed?”

“Oh, so now you’re gonna give me that growing pains lesson again.”

“I used that one before, huh?”

“Two or three times since we opened this store.”

“Damn. By the way, where’s the professor?”

“Karras? He’ll be in.”

Clay went out to the floor. Cootch was behind the counter, ringing up an Atlantic Starr cassette for a customer. Denice Tate stood by the front door, staring through the window out to U.

“Thank you, brother,” Clay said to the customer, trying not to wince at the boy’s vines. Jheri-curled fool was wearing a red-and-black leather jacket straight out of a Michael Jackson video, one where Michael danced with all those dead mugs coming out of the grave.

“Thank you,” said the young man, slipping one fingerless glove on his hand as he headed out the door.

“There’s one for you, Neecie,” said Cootch. “Was asking after you when he bought his tape. Called you Billie Jean. That your name?”

Denice said, “Be for real.”

Cootch put a recent George Clinton, Some of My Best Jokes Are Friends, on the turntable. Clay felt the urge to dance a little as he walked over to Denice. He never would have imagined a flute solo on a P-Funk jam. But it worked. Long as he had been around, Clinton was still bad.

Clay said, “Hey, girl,” trying to open things up in an upbeat way.

“Marcus.”

“Good time last night?”

“It was okay. I just went over to my friend Ashley’s, watched some videos.”

Clay glanced behind him to make sure that Clarence had not come out to the floor. Clay stared into Denice’s eyes and said, “Look here. I saw you with a couple of boys last night, out on the street.”

Denice looked down at the black and white tiles, breathed out slow. Clay let her take her time. He had decided to talk to the girl alone first, see what she had to say.

Denice said, “You gonna tell my father?”

“I haven’t yet,” said Clay. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna lie to him, either. What I want to talk about here is you.”

Denice nodded. “All right.”

“That boy you’re runnin’ with, what’s his name?”

“Alan Rogers.”

“This Alan Rogers, he’s into dealing drugs. You know that, don’t you?”

“You don’t even know this boy. Alan’s good.”

“That might be true. I’m old enough to see the world in all kinds of shades. But, good or bad, what he is for sure is trouble. Your father’s put in a lot of good years with me, honey, and I love you like my own. Been knowin’ you since you weren’t nothin’ much more than a baby girl. Just don’t want to see no harm come to you, that’s all.”

“I know. And I appreciate it, Marcus. But see, I wasn’t in any kind of danger last night. Alan wouldn’t let that happen. I saw him at the Chuck Brown show, and he was just ridin’ me home.”

“With that boy he runs with, tough-lookin’ boy. You can’t stand there now and tell me he’s good.”

“No, but—”

“What, that white cop who was talkin’ to you all, he stop you on some kind of suspicion?”

“You saw that?”

“Drove right by y’all.”

Denice looked down. “The white cop, they call him Tutt. That man is mean.”

“How so?”

“Got mean eyes, Marcus. He and Short Man—”

“Rogers’s partner?”

“Uh-huh. Tutt and Short Man were arguing over some kid named Chief. Alan didn’t even act like he knew what they were talkin’ about. Didn’t act like he cared. You know what I’m sayin’, Marcus? It was something between those two.”

“Okay.” Denice was clouding the issue, confusing him, avoiding what she had to know was good advice. “Look, Neecie, all I want you to do is think about what you’re getting into. Just think.”

“I will, Marcus. I promise. And thanks for keeping this between us. Thanks, okay?”

“You hearin’ me?”

Denice gave him a quick series of nods. “I’m gonna think real hard on it, Marcus.”

“Go on, girl. Don’t play me, hear?”

“Marcus, I’m not.”

Denice looked out the door, saw Tutt’s partner, the one named Murphy, in uniform and crossing the street with some kid, headed toward the store. Marcus hadn’t asked about the cop named Murphy, and Denice hadn’t thought to bring him up. This Murphy, he had been pretty nice last night; in his own quiet way he had calmed things down. But she didn’t want to be around the store if he was coming by.

“I’m gonna go for a walk, Marcus.”

Clay was looking at the cop and the kid now, too. “Sure, Denice. You go on.”

Denice pushed through the door, caught the cop’s eye as she went west on U. His eyes met hers, but he didn’t say a word. Denice thought it strange.

Clay watched the cop approach. This was the cop who was partnered up with that white patrolman Denice had been talking about, the one named Tutt. Now this uniformed brother was approaching with Anthony Taylor practically under his arm. Clay wondered if Anthony had said anything about the drug car, about that Donna girl’s boyfriend, or about the money.

Clay figured he was going to find out real quick. He opened the door to let them in.

Alan Rogers got in close to Denice Tate, draped his extra-large jacket around her shoulders, blanketed them both. They stood behind the fence, hidden from the street.

“Missed you, girl.”

“I missed you, too.”

He kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She closed her eyes and kissed him back. He pushed his swelling groin into hers and listened to her moan.

“Want you bad, Neecie,” whispered Rogers.

“We’ll know when it’s time,” she said in a shaky voice.

“I know now.”

She wanted him. Kissing him, she felt a warm, wet kind of tickle build between her legs. She kissed him hard once more and broke away.

“Alan.”

He slowly pulled her back in against him.

“Tonight, baby. Can we hook up?”

“I don’t know. I’m scared.”

“What, you scared of me?”

“Course not. I’m talkin’ about your friends. Your life.”

He tilted up her chin. “I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you. Don’t you know that?”

“I know, but—”

“And you don’t have to worry about my friends.”

“The man my father works for, he says y’all be dealin’ drugs.”

Rogers cocked his head thoughtfully. “Just tryin’ to make my mark, Neecie. Get some like everybody else. Make enough to break off quick, go on about my business, get a real job. Maybe earn my GED. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doin’.”

“What about the police?”

“Those ones from last night?” Rogers puffed out his chest. “Shoot, girl, they ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you.”

Denice rested her cheek on Rogers’s chest. “I like that you’re strong.”

“You need a man like me out here. Don’t you know that?”

“Yes.”

Rogers stroked the top of her head. “So what about tonight?”

“I’ll try,” said Denice. “Listen, I got to be gettin’ back. My daddy’ll be all worried.”

Rogers said, “You go on.”

Marcus Clay had just finished moving the “Word Up” twelve-inch bin to the front of the store when he happened to look out the window. He saw Anthony Taylor a block down, crossing the street around 10th. Then he saw that drug boy, Short Man, standing on the corner there by the construction fence, waving Anthony ahead.

Clay went and stood by the window.

“Turn that music down, Cootch,” said Clay over his shoulder.

Cootch cut back the volume on the house stereo. “That better?”

“Yeah. Can’t see nothin’ with that music up so loud.”

“What are you lookin’ at?”

“You send Anthony out for somethin’?”

“Gave him a couple of ducats for a soda from the market. Told him to buy one for himself, keep the change. There a problem with that?”

“Not sure just yet.”

Dimitri Karras came out of the back room. He crossed the floor and stood next to Marcus Clay.

“What’s goin’ on, Marcus?”

“Just lookin’ at—” Clay stopped speaking, noticing Karras. Karras’s jaw was knotted tight.

“What?”

“You eat today?” said Clay.

“Had a piece of toast this morning. Why?”

“You don’t look so good.”

“I feel fine.”

“I bet you do. But you sure don’t look it. Ought to see just how pale you look. And those jeans of yours are about ready to drop right off your ass. Startin’ to look like that Mitch Snyder, been fastin’ for twenty-seven days.”

“I just need to eat. Food and a good night’s sleep, that’s all I need.”

“Uh-huh.”

Karras looked through the window. He squinted his eyes. “That our new employee?”

“That’s Anthony, yeah.”

“Who’s he talkin’ to?”

“Goes by the name of Short Man. Deals coke for our neighborhood kingpin, someone named Tyrell Cleveland. That boy got burned up yesterday, he worked for Tyrell, too. Tell me, man, what was the name of Donna’s boyfriend again?”

Marcus was getting to something now. It made Karras uncomfortable, that too quiet, too polite tone in Clay’s voice. It had been a while since he’d heard Marcus speak that way.

“Eddie Golden,” said Karras.

“Eddie Golden. Well, this Tyrell, the one I told you about? He’s the one Eddie stole all that jack from.”

Clay watched Short Man get up in Anthony’s face. Clay made a small humming sound through closed lips.

Karras cleared his throat. “But why’s Short Man talkin’ to the kid like that?”

“’Cause the kid managed to get himself in the middle. Yesterday, when that boy in the Buick got his head tore off and Eddie Golden took that pillowcase? Anthony saw what went down.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Karras saw Clay unfold his arms and ball his right fist.

“Thought you weren’t going to get involved,” said Karras.

Clay said, “I’m tryin’ my best.”

Short Man threw Anthony up against the fence. Anthony went down, tried to scamper off. The Rogers kid came up on the two of them, blocked Anthony’s route. Short Man snatched Anthony by his jacket and stood him back up.

“Aw, shit,” said Clay very softly. “You done went and did the wrong thing, now.”

Clay stepped quickly toward the door. Karras followed.

“Marcus, what you doin’, man?”

“Find out when I get there.”

“I’m comin’ with you.”

“All that energy you got, you might as well.”

They pushed through the door and hit the street.

Cootch stepped out from behind the counter and walked to the window, watched Clay and Karras in full sprint.

“Damn,” said Cootch. He never would have thought a couple of old-school mugs like Clay and Karras could move so fast.

Anthony Taylor uncurled his fingers from around the criss-cross metal grate. They had put him behind the cage in the backseat. Officer Murphy had turned up the volume on the radio mounted underneath the dash so Anthony could hear. Anthony could see some kind of shotgun propped barrel up next to Tutt, the white cop with the mean eyes. Murphy was driving, sitting up straight. Anthony thought that Officer Murphy looked bad behind the wheel. Murphy stopped the car halfway down Fairmont.

“All right, young man,” said Murphy. “This is it right here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

Anthony had to wait for Murphy to come around, since there wasn’t any handle on the door to let himself out. Anthony figured that this was on purpose, like; it was usually criminals sat back where he was at now.

Murphy opened the door, and Anthony stepped out onto the government strip of grass. A couple of kids from the neighborhood had come close to the car, along with two boys Anthony recognized from Clifton Terrace.

“Don’t say nothin’, Officer Murphy,” Anthony said softly. “Okay?”

Murphy put his hand on the boy’s arm, walked him up the sidewalk to his row house. Murphy almost chuckled, watching Anthony affect a swagger as he looked behind him and winked one time at his friends.

Murphy rang the buzzer on the front door.

A middle-aged woman, broad shouldered with large, artillery-shell breasts, opened the door. She registered Murphy’s uniform and quickly frowned down on Anthony.

“What’d you go and do now, son?” she asked.

“Ain’t do nothin’, Granmom.”

“He’s in no trouble.” Murphy extended his hand. “Officer Murphy.”

“Lula Taylor.”

She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Strong and tall, about ten years past pretty. A large mole lodged against the fold of her right nostril would give some men pause. It looked like a beetle had crawled up and died right on her face.

“Why’d you bring him home, then?”

“Earlier on, some boys tried to rough him up. Thought I’d escort him back.”

“Thank you. Appreciate you lookin’ out for my boy.”

“Pleasure.”

Murphy looked past her, into the smoky living room where the Wattstax album was playing on the stereo. The figure of a man quickly crossed the room and ducked out of sight.

“Everything all right?” said Lula.

“Yes, ma’am. Was just going to say, might be better if Anthony stays in tonight.”

“Aw, man,” said Anthony.

“I don’t let him out alone at night,” said Lula, “if that’s what you think.”

“Ain’t gonna stay around here all weekend,” said Anthony, “listenin’ to you and your friend argue and—”

“Anthony!”

“But Granmom—”

“Don’t you take a tone with me. Now go on up to your room, son. Go on.”

Anthony shook his head. “See you, Officer Murphy.”

“All right, Anthony. You take care.”

Anthony went inside and up the stairs.

Lula looked behind her, then back at Murphy. “That all?”

“Just keep an eye on your grandson, Miss Taylor.”

Lula narrowed her eyes. “You sayin’ that I don’t?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not sayin’ that.”

“’Cause I do the best I can. Work a full-time job and pay for his food and shelter and clothing, including that NFL jacket and those fifty-dollar sneakers he likes to wear. Give him plenty of love, too. All of this while that daughter of mine cleans herself up down south. I do the best I can.”

“Just wanted to mention that it’s gettin’ awful rough out here. Boy his age shouldn’t be runnin’ free.”

“Good day, officer.”

Murphy tipped his head and said, “Good day.”

She closed the door. Murphy walked away.

Going down the sidewalk, one of the older boys leaning on an old Datsun asked what the Taylor kid had done. Murphy didn’t answer or look the boy’s way. He opened the driver’s-side door and got behind the wheel of the squad car.

“Still think the kid’s tellin’ the truth?” said Tutt.

“Yeah,” said Murphy.

“I’m not so sure. Let’s get to our pay phone. I’ll beep Rogers, see if we can’t find out what went down. Maybe Taylor did talk. You never know.”

Tutt always called from the same pay phone. He made sure none of the runners used the same one.

Murphy ignitioned the cruiser.

Tutt said, “That old man, one who called in the fight? He said Clay had some words with Short Man about stayin’ out of the neighborhood. Tyrell’s not gonna like that.”

“I expect he won’t.”

“Well, I always said it was just a matter of time before someone shut Short’s mouth. Only wish it could have been me.”

“You’ll get your chance, Tutt.”

“Gonna be my pleasure, too. Anyway, he had it comin’.”

We all have it coming. It’s a vengeful God gonna make us pay.

“Come on,” said Tutt, “we gonna sit here idling all day? Or maybe you want to see if one of those geniuses over there wants a ride somewhere, too. Maybe you wanna start one of those, what do you call that, day-care services for all these disadvantaged kids.”

Tutt high-cackled as Murphy pulled away from the curb.

“Oh, shit.” Tutt wiped his eyes.

“You’re cracking yourself up, Tutt.” Murphy hung a left. “Where to?”

“Head on down to T, partner. Let’s see if we can’t do somethin’ right before we gotta go talk to Tyrell. Maybe run across that kid in the green hat. You know, the one who calls himself Chief.”

Chink Bennet said, “Shit, Jumbo, why you gotta be makin’ so much noise? Show my girl a little respect.”

Jumbo Linney was reaching into his party-sized bag of Doritos, bringing out some ranch-flavored chips. The sound of crushed cellophane competed with the grunts, moans, and short breathing of the men jacking off around them.

“Your girl? She yours now, huh? You think Vanessa know you, Chink? You ain’t had no girl since as far back as I can remember. Last time you had a piece of ass was when your finger broke through the toilet paper while you was givin’ yourself a wipe, ha ha ha.”

“Ain’t heard that stupid shit since grade school, man.”

“Grade school be the only place a tiny mug like you would get some play. Remember that group picture they used to take every year when we was in grade school? How they always put the itty-bitty mothafuckers in the front row? They made a new front row for your Tattoo-lookin’ ass.”

“Quiet down,” said someone behind them.

“Take a walk,” said someone else from the back of the theater.

“Who gonna walk me?” shouted Linney. “You?”

“Talk about it, Jumbo,” said Bennet.

“Nigga tryin’ to take me for bad.”

Bennett and Linney sat with two seats between them so no one would think they were punks. The Gayety Theatre was half filled for its Saturday matinee. “Ladies Free with Escort,” the ads always said, but Chink and Jumbo had never seen a woman in the place, except for the hand-job hookers the patrons brought in and the women up on the screen. Vanessa Del Rio was up there now, sitting on some dude’s face.

“Her Name Is Lisa,” said Bennett with reverence, the way a priest might say “The Song of Bernadette” when asked to name his favorite film. “Why don’t they call it Her Name Is Vanessa, though, Jumbo?”

“’Cause she’s playin’ a character got the name Lisa.”

“There you go,” said Bennet, pointing at the screen. “She workin’ that mothafucker now, boy.”

The actress was saying something like, “Oh, your cock is so big,” but Chink Bennet wasn’t listening to her words. He studied her mouth, mostly, his favorite Vanessa body part, though he liked her big titties and the muscle action way up on her thighs. Girl had a nice onion on her, too.

A guy two rows up gave a horse-shake of his head and pitched forward as he shot off into a dirty sock. Bennet and Linney laughed. The guy got up and left the theater a few minutes later.

“Hey, Mr. Ed, where you goin’?” said Linney.

“Movie ain’t over yet!” shouted Bennet.

“Forgot your Ban-lons and shit!”

Bennet and Linney touched hands.

“Vanessa,” said Bennet a little later on. “That there is my girl.”

“You ask me, I’d like to have me a girl like Karen Johnson.”

“What, you sayin’ she near as good as Vanessa Del Rio?”

“Naw, Chink. I’m not talkin’ about the way she looks. I’m talkin’ about what she did for the mayor. Gave up that pussy and supplied him with cocaine any time he wanted, man. Then went to jail for his ass instead of testifyin’.”

“They say the mayor’s friends paid her off, Jumbo. The ones he gives those contracts to and shit. Gave her some of that hush money you hear about.”

“Why she did it, I don’t know. But any man could get with a woman who’d do that for him.”

Chink Bennet stroked his chin. “I had a choice, I’d stay with my girl V, right up there.”

Out on 9th Street, Bennet and Linney walked toward the Supra.

“Better get over to Tyrell’s,” said Bennet. “He’ll be lookin’ for us, man.”

“Make a stop first at the Seven-Eleven, okay? Got my heart set on some nachos, man.”

“Damn, Jumbo, can’t we ever get in the car and drive without stoppin’ for food?”

“I guess I just love food the way you love pussy, Chink.” Jumbo side-glanced his friend. “Difference is, I can eat any time I want to.”

Eddie stared at the back of a black seat. He was on the floor of a car, and he felt very close to the ground. There was vibration and city music and two men arguing over the music, and when the music stopped there was still the arguing and the sound of wipers on glass.

He was near fetal behind the seats. Something heavy lay across his legs. He moved his arm up an inch and looked down so that he could see what was causing all the pain. His hand was bent too far, and his wrist bone pushed out against the skin where it had snapped. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Fuck you had to break his arm for, Short?”

“Bitch screamed; I had to make him stop.”

“What we gonna do with him now?”

“Couldn’t just leave him there. Take him back to Ty’s, find out what we need to know.”

“Tyrell ain’t gonna like it, man, you bringin’ him to the house.”

“He’s gonna like how we found the one tried to beat him for his money. You can believe that.”

“What if someone comes around, looks for him where he parked his truck?”

“Why I had you drive his car and park it a couple miles away, behind that car wash. Anybody comes around, they’ll think he got back from work, took off, went and got drunk, some shit like that. That is, if anybody cares.”

Eddie Golden closed his eyes. Maybe none of this was real.

Alan Rogers slipped the Z in the space between the Supra and Tyrell’s 633. He cut the engine and watched rain cloud the windshield.

“Go ahead, Alan, I’ll get our boy inside.”

“I’ll get him, Short. Take his tool belt and go on in. Let Tyrell know we got him ’fore I bring him through the door.”

“Right.”

Monroe reached behind him and lifted the tool belt off the white boy’s legs. He got out of the car and walked through the rain, stepped up onto the porch and into the bungalow.

Rogers looked into the back of the car at the white boy. His eyes were open but set kind of strange.

“What’s your name?” said Rogers.

“Ed.”

“Ed what?”

“Ed Golden.”

“Okay. I’m gonna tell you what’s what, ’cause once we get inside I’m just another employee. Can’t help you none in there.”

Eddie licked some crust off his lips. “I’m listening.”

“We know you took the money. All Tyrell gonna want to know now is where it’s at. You tell us, you got a good chance to walk away. You don’t, well, you think you’re hurtin’ now, you got a whole world of hurtin’ comin’ to your ass. Things you can’t imagine, hear?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Don’t be stutterin’ like that, either. My partner, Short, he pick up on that, he gonna run it right into the ground.”

“It hurts.”

“I bet it do. Short had no call to do you like that. But he did, so there’s nothin’ we can do about it now.” Rogers reached into a cup set between the buckets where Monroe had dropped the last of his codeine pills. “Here you go, eat these. Make you feel better, man.”

Rogers put the pills, one at a time, in Eddie Golden’s open mouth. Eddie chewed them up and swallowed the bits.

“What’s your name?” said Eddie.

“Never mind that.”

“Wanted to thank you, that’s all.”

“Never you mind. Remember what I said. Tell it straight. Be a lot easier on you if you do.”

Rogers got out of the car, reached behind the seat, pulled up on Eddie’s bicep.

“Uh,” said Eddie.

“Yeah,” said Rogers, “I know.”

He got Eddie out of the car, guided him toward the house. He felt him shake beneath his hand.

Eddie heard bass coming from the house. He saw the silhouettes of two figures behind the curtained front window. For a moment he thought he would break away and run. There were dark woods around the house and tiny lights back beyond the woods. It was quiet, except for the rain. The moment passed. He let the tall kid with the gentle eyes lead him to the front door of the house. They went inside.

A light-skinned black man with very green eyes and sharp, angular features sat in a cushioned chair, looking up at Eddie. The scary one with the fucked-up nose was at a round table, dipping his finger into a mound of cocaine and rubbing the coke on his gums. In another open room, a huge black guy and a tiny yellow black sat on a couch, laughing at something on the television. A thin black leaned against the wall, staring at Eddie with flat, dull eyes.

Eddie saw several guns, shotguns and pistols, scattered around the room.

The light-skinned black uncoiled himself and stood from his chair. He was taller than Eddie by a foot. His ears were long and pointed, like those of a goat.

Eddie’s knees weakened. He felt a quiver in his sphincter. He tightened himself and swallowed hard.

“This the one?” said Tyrell incredulously.

“Yeah,” said Monroe.

“Don’t look like much,” said Antony Ray, pushing away from the wall and unfolding his arms. “Hard to believe he took you off, Tyrell.”

“Heard that, cuz,” said Tyrell.

“Name’s Ed Golden,” said Rogers.

“Golden,” said Tyrell. “What kind of name is that?”

“Jewboy,” said Antony Ray. “Ain’t that right?”

Eddie lowered his head. Rogers pulled a chair away from the round table and set it by the fireplace. He looked at Eddie and said, “Sit down.”

Eddie took a seat. He leaned forward, rested his broken wrist on his lap, and winced. He didn’t look anyone in the eye. They were talking, but he couldn’t make out much of what they were saying. The music, someone shouting angrily over a bass line and what sounded like a whistle of rockets, was playing too loud.

Eddie saw the one named Tyrell go to the other room and tell the others to come back with him. They turned off the TV and lowered the music and returned. The six of them stood around him then. He kept his head down. The fire shadows played at their feet.

“Eddie,” said Tyrell. “You don’t mind I call you Eddie, right?”

“No,” said Eddie.

“He don’t mind,” said someone, and a couple of them laughed.

“Look up when we’re talkin’ to you, boy.”

Eddie made himself look at them.

“Good.”

“Damn, Short,” said Linney, “who fucked up your nose?”

“Shut up, Jumbo.”

“For real, man, who fucked up your shit like that?”

“You oughtta go ahead and tell it, Short Man,” said Tyrell. “I’d like to know.”

“Man by the name of — what’s that nigga’s name, Alan?”

“Marcus Clay,” said Rogers. “Owns this record store called Real Right, down on U.”

“You know him, Alan?” said Tyrell.

“My boy Alan,” said Monroe, “he knows his name ’cause he’s datin’ this little girl Neecie Tate. Her father works there.”

“That so?” said Tyrell.

“Just this girl I know, Ty—”

“And this one here,” said Tyrell, gesturing to Eddie. “Didn’t he take me off right in front of that shop?”

“That’s right,” said Monroe.

“Just tryin’ to put all this together. Go ahead, Short.”

“I was talkin’ to this kid hangs out around the way, boy named Anthony Taylor. Had to get kind of rough with him till he told me what I wanted. All the sudden, this Vietnam mothafucker, Clay, comes runnin’ at me, surprises me on the blind side.”

“Look like Vietnam did more than surprise you, man,” said Linney.

“Nigga did a Billy Jack on your ass,” said Bennet.

“Schooled you,” said Linney.

Linney and Bennet laughed and touched hands. Antony Ray smiled.

Monroe quieted Linney and Bennet with a look. “I got your information for you, Tyrell. Taylor talked before I got blindsided. It’s how I got on to this one right here.”

“You did good.”

“Yeah, I know I did. Far as that Clay goes, I ain’t done with him yet. Just gettin’ started.”

“Maybe you ought to leave things alone. We’re runnin’ a quiet business. Don’t need a lot of drama down there.”

“Was Clay who made the noise,” said Monroe. “Shoutin’ out for everyone to hear ’bout how he didn’t want to see our kind in the neighborhood no more. Even had these old niggas livin’ down there joinin’ in. Next thing you know, you gonna have one of those orange-hat squads walkin’ around at night.”

Tyrell touched the hairs on his chin. “That’s not good.”

“Damn right it ain’t no good, Ty,” said Monroe. “Thought Tutt and Murphy was supposed to keep that kind of shit under control.”

“So did I.” He looked down at Eddie. “You enjoying this conversation?”

“No,” said Eddie. “I’m not listening.”

“You haven’t heard a thing we’ve said.”

“I can’t concentrate. My arm is broken. It hurts. I need a doctor—”

“I can see that. But first we need to talk.”

“I’m... I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I know you’re sorry now. Kind of late to be apologizin’ and all that. But you did take my money, right?”

“I didn’t know it was yours.”

“You knew it belonged to somebody, right?”

“I wasn’t thinking. I went to help that boy in the car. I saw the money and—”

“You stole it.”

“Yes, but—”

“But,” said Tyrell.

“Chicken butt,” said Linney. “Watch it strut.”

Bennet laughed. “Damn, Jumbo, you always be talkin’ that grade school shit.”

“Y’all are some dumb-ass bitches,” said Ray, picking a .38 Bulldog up off the table and locking back the hammer. “Y’all gonna talk shit all night? ’Cause I’ll find out where Golden Boy here got the money stashed right quick.”

Ray pointed the gun at Eddie. Eddie made a choking sound.

“Wait up,” said Alan Rogers, raising his hand. “Tyrell, you ain’t even asked him nothin’ yet, for real.”

Tyrell looked at Rogers and then at Ray. “He’s right, cuz. Put it away.” Tyrell turned to Eddie. “Where’s my money at, boy? Say it and be quick.”

Eddie Golden said, “My apartment. In the pillowcase... in my bedroom closet.”

“Where’s that?”

Eddie gave Tyrell the address.

“I got his keys,” said Monroe.

“They open your place?” said Tyrell.

Eddie nodded, and Tyrell gave instructions to his men.

Monroe led Eddie Golden back to one of the two bedrooms set off the hall. The room contained a sheeted mattress and box spring on the floor, with a radiator next to the bed. Monroe stood by the door. He left when Rogers arrived with a glass of water, which Eddie drank hungrily. Eddie lay back.

Rogers didn’t bother to tie him up. He wasn’t strong enough to go anywhere, way he was.

“You be still.”

“Thank you.”

“You better not be tellin’ lies,” said Rogers.

“I’m not,” said Eddie. “Listen—”

Rogers walked away. He closed the door behind him and left Eddie in darkness.

Eddie listened to their voices from the other room. He breathed out very slowly in relief. It was that same feeling he had once when he’d woken up in the recovery room, after this operation he’d had. The feeling that he’d dodged a bullet. That he’d bought time.

And he hadn’t said a word about Donna. Even with the gun pointed at his face, he hadn’t thought once of mentioning her.

Despite the rain and clouds, light filtered in through the windows, and as Eddie’s eyes adjusted he could make out the angles of the room. His arm throbbed less, but the fear and codeine had made him dizzy and sick.

Eddie stared at the ceiling and tried to forget the pain. He had to think of what he could give them next. He needed to come up with a story, something to tell them when they came back empty-handed. Something that would keep him alive.

Marcus Clay and Dimitri Karras met at the Dupont store, as they always did at closing time on Saturday nights, and had a beer with the store’s longtime manager, Cheek. Dupont had been Clay’s first store, and it would always be his favorite. It only stood to reason that he had his favorite manager in there, too. Cheek had been with Clay for more than ten years, and for every year of service he had put on five pounds.

After the other stores had called in their figures, Cheek closed Dupont and went to make the deposit. Clay and Karras walked the two blocks back to the Trauma Arms, where they both showered and changed clothes.

Karras defrosted a ham bone he had been saving and made a pot of split pea soup. He grilled a couple of tomato-and-cheese sandwiches, put them together with the soup, and he and Clay had dinner.

They watched North Carolina slaughter Alabama-Birmingham as they ate. The food improved Karras’s condition considerably, though he was annoyed at the outcome of the game. As a Maryland fan, Karras hated Dean Smith the way most Greeks hated Turks.

“You got to admit, though,” said Clay, “whatever they do during the season, Coach Smith does get them through those first two rounds.”

“Ah,” said Karras, waving his hand at the set. “It’s the conference. The ACC just attracts the quality players, Marcus. Look how many go on to play in the NBA. Georgia Tech and Duke both advanced today. The Tar Heels are in, and NC State will crush Arkansas-Little Rock tomorrow. And you know Maryland’s gotta go into the Sweet Sixteen.”

“UNLV? We’ll see. The Terps are gonna need five men to show up, not just Bias.”

The phone rang, and Karras picked it up. He talked for a while, wrote something on a message pad, and replaced the receiver in its cradle. He rubbed his face.

“Who was that?”

“Donna. She’s worried about her boyfriend, Eddie.”

“She should be.”

“It’s more than that. He hasn’t shown up from work yet.”

“Maybe he’s out havin’ a few.”

“She doesn’t think so. They had definite plans. And she claims he’s the puppy-dog type when it comes to her.”

“What’s she want from you?”

“Guy’s a dishwasher installer. I’m gonna run over to where he switches his truck with his car, see if he’s knocked off for the night.”

“Then you’re gonna go see Donna.”

“It’s not like that, Marcus.”

“It’s always like that with you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“The shoe fits, man—”

“I know.”

“Mitri?”

“Now you’re gonna remind me not to get involved. Like you hung back today?”

“All right. But show some sense.”

Karras went back to his bedroom and slipped the snow-seal holding the rest of his half into his jean jacket. He left the Trauma Arms.

Chief Meadows, P-Square Willets, and Mooty Wallace bolted into the alley. Mooty was the fastest of the bunch, and his fear had made him jet. Mooty was way out front.

“Buck right, Mooty!” yelled Chief, and Mooty bounded over a low fence.

He was gone into the darkness of a yard and through it quick, out onto the next street west. He stopped behind a parked car, watched the Supra blow by, saw a fat man in the passenger seat and a little boy behind the wheel. He ran in the direction of his house.

Tyrell Cleveland put down the phone. He leaned back in his armchair and looked into the fire. He ran a finger down his cheek.

Antony Ray squatted on the hearth, used a poker to lift a log off another. Flames curled upward through the space.

“That was Jumbo,” said Tyrell. “We got some serious problems.”

“Yeah?”

“Eddie Golden told a lie. Wasn’t no pillowcase back at his place.”

“Coulda told you that.”

“That ain’t all. Short Man, he killed a couple kids tonight. Real kids. That boy Chief, been playin’ dealer down on our turf? Him and some other little kid. Shot ’em both.”

Ray clucked his tongue. “Cold, man. And stupid, too. You’d think Rogers would’ve stopped him.”

“Rogers wasn’t with them at the time. They’re on their way back in right now.”

“You need to get your boys under control, cuz.”

“Yes.”

“You get any other details?”

“Must be on the TV news by now.”

“Gonna watch it?”

“What for? Need to sit here and think on it some.”

Ray did a line he had cut out on the mirror. He walked to the hallway, went into the bedroom on the left, and closed the door behind him.

Time passed. Tyrell heard the white boy scream.

The screaming was loud and high pitched, and it bothered Tyrell’s ears. He rose from his chair, went into the other room, and turned up the Run-D.M.C. that was already coming from the box. He stood there by the stereo until Ray came back out of the bedroom. Ray’s eyes were bright, and he was holding back a smile. Tyrell cut the volume back low to where he could gather his thoughts.

“He talk?”

“Started sayin’ somethin’ about some white dude, workin’ in that record store down on U. Boy passed out cold on me right after that. Guess I put a little too much pressure on that broken wing of his. Way he looked, might be out for the rest of the night.”

“He don’t look like the hero type to me. Either he’s dumb or he’s tellin’ the truth. He took the money, now, he’s said as much. But maybe someone he knew took him off after that.”

“Maybe that record store dude.”

“Have to ask him about it when he wakes up.”

“I will.”

Tyrell saw that smile again, creeping up. “Don’t kill him, Antony.”

“Don’t worry,” said Ray. “Havin’ too much fun just keepin’ him alive.”

Marcus Clay kept seeing Denice, standing next to him on the U Street sales floor. Someone honked behind him, and he moved on the green.

It was the conversation he’d had with Denice about Alan Rogers, that’s what it was. Something about driving by them Friday night, seeing them all standing in the street. He could hear Denice’s voice now, see her lips moving slow—

Tutt and Short Man were arguing...

Clay swerved to the curb.

...over some kid named Chief.

Okay, there it was. Didn’t prove anything, though. So Short Man knew Chief. Didn’t mean he killed that boy.

Short Man dealt drugs for Tyrell Cleveland. The dead kids were dealing on Tyrell’s turf.

Tutt and Short Man were arguing over some kid named Chief.

Tutt and Short Man.

“Tutt,” said Clay under his breath.

Tutt wasn’t just a mean cop. Tutt was dirty, too.

Clay poured coffee into a WHUR mug and settled into his swivel chair. Karras had a seat on the edge of Clay’s desk.

“You first,” said Karras.

“All right,” said Clay. “Just had breakfast with George Dozier. Those kids got killed last night? He’s workin’ the case. Told me one of the kids went by the name of Chief. Denice was with Rogers and Short Man the other night when Tutt, Murphy’s partner, came up on ’em. Denice said Short Man and Tutt were arguing over a kid named Chief.”

Karras sipped his coffee. “You think Short Man did the kids.”

“George said the kids were small-time dealers on Tyrell Cleveland’s turf. Short Man enforces for Tyrell.”

“What about Tutt?”

“Tutt’s dirty.”

“Denice tell you that, too?”

“No. Got a strong feeling about it is all.”

“Murphy?”

“Just ’cause he rides with the man don’t mean he knows.” Clay looked into his mug. “Ought to call George Dozier right now, let him and IAD sort it out.”

“Why haven’t you, then?”

“’Cause I’m not sure.”

“Right. And there’s something else, Marcus.”

“I thought of that,” said Clay. “There’s the money. And your girl.”

“That’s right. But there’s more you don’t know. Something’s happened to Donna’s boyfriend, Eddie.”

“The one took off Tyrell?”

“Yeah. I went by where he parks his car. A mechanic takes care of his tools, and his were lying around on the ground. He either left in a big hurry or he got taken real fast. He never phoned her last night, and he’s not the type to blow Donna off, not when he’s got her close to where he wants her, the way he does now.”

“You think Tyrell might have Eddie?”

“It’s possible. Sending in the cavalry, it might be a good way to get him killed.”

“They might go on and kill him anyway, they don’t get what they want. Gonna be on your head if they do.”

“I don’t think so. They need him alive, long as they don’t know where the money is. I just hope he’s smart enough to know that.”

“You saw the money?”

“In a pillowcase at Donna’s apartment.”

“If they’re after it, it means she’s in real trouble, too.”

“Yes.”

“Bet you took her mind off it real good last night, Dimitri.”

“Not the way you think.”

“No?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Clay set his mug down on the desk. “All of the sudden you goin’ all Galahad on me. Why?”

“Just trying to do something right.”

“Been a while. Proud of you, man.”

Karras said, “Thanks.”

“So, what’re we gonna do?”

“Maybe we should talk it over with Murphy.”

“He’s off today. Said he was comin’ in to see the Maryland game with us. But I want to be sure about Tutt before I start settin’ off the alarms.”

“How would you do that?”

“Tutt’s off today, too. If Tutt’s in bed with Tyrell, and Tyrell had anything to do with those murders, then you know the two of them have got to hook up to talk about damage control. Or maybe Tutt’s gonna meet with one of Tyrell’s boys.”

“Follow Tutt, see where he goes?”

Clay nodded. “Not us, though. He’s seen us up too close. You know anybody’d want to follow a cop around for a couple of hours today? I’d make it worth his while.”

“You know where Tutt lives? You know his street vehicle?”

“Lives in Silver Spring Towers. Drives a baby blue Bronco. Seen it myself.”

Karras thought it over. “There’s this one guy I know.” He drained his coffee and dropped the Styrofoam cup in the trash. “I’ll give him a call.”

Kevin Murphy said hello to Cootch and walked into the back room of Real Right. Marcus Clay, Dimitri Karras, and Clarence Tate sat in chairs semicircling the store’s battered television. Anthony Taylor stood beside Clay, sipping from a can of Nehi grape.

“Officer Murphy!” said Anthony.

“Anthony,” said Murphy. “Wha’sup, fellas?”

“You missed the first half,” said Clay.

“Had some things to do. Listened to it on the radio on the way down. Maryland’s down by six, right?”

“Yeah,” said Clay. “St. John’s lost to Auburn today, you believe that? Chuck Person had twenty-seven, made Walter Berry look like nobody’s All-American.”

“Big East is out of the tournament,” said Karras. “Didn’t even place one team in the Sweet Sixteen.”

“And that means Bias ain’t gonna have that hookup with Berry,” said Clay, “everyone’s been waitin’ for.”

“Don’t look like Maryland’s going to the next level anyway, Marcus,” said Tate.

“Gotta think positive, Clarence. Lenny’s gonna turn it on second half. You wait.”

“UNLV’s holding ’em pretty good, though,” said Karras. “Seems like they got two men on the ball handler every possession. Tarkanian’s coaching a good game. And Anthony Jones is hot.”

“Jones is a Washington boy,” said Tate for the third time that day. “Out of Dunbar.”

“Bias is the key,” said Clay. “He’s keepin’ ’em in the game. Pull a chair up, Kev.”

Murphy drew a chair beside Clay. Clay looked him over.

“You lookin’ a little rough, man.”

“Drank too much last night. Was at the crime scene down the street.”

“Need to talk to you about that, just you and me, when we get a chance.”

Murphy stared at the action on the set. “Okay.”

Len Bias drove the baseline, went up against three defenders, sank the pill.

“Number Thirty-four,” whispered Clay.

“Here we go,” said Karras.

“Check out Tark,” said Tate. “Gonna bite right through that rag, man.”

“Go on and bite through it, Kojak!” said Anthony, and Clay tapped him on the head.

The Terps scored the next fourteen without an answer from the Runnin’ Rebels, bringing it to 41–33, Maryland’s way. Maryland’s players were high-fiving at midcourt.

“What’s Lefty so mad about?” said Anthony.

“Coach thinks they’re celebratin’ too early,” said Clay.

Armon Gilliam, UNLV’s big forward, and Jones began taking it to the hole. The Runnin’ Rebels went on a 17–2 run: 50–43, UNLV.

Bias cut it to three. Derrick Lewis, the other half of Maryland’s inside game, fouled out.

“Is this a game?” said Karras.

Murphy slapped Karras five.

Clay said, “Got to get it to Lenny now. He can win the game for ’em if they keep dishin’ him the rock.”

“Goddamn — sorry, Anthony — look at Jones. He’s hittin’ at will from downtown!”

“D.C. boy.”

“Out of Dunbar, Clarence. We know.”

“It’s all Bias now.”

“Number Thirty-four.”

Len Bias had scored the last thirteen of Maryland’s points. The Runnin’ Rebels missed the front ends of three one-and-ones. The Terps brought it to within one with forty seconds to go. Jones hit four foul shots. John Johnson, a Terp reserve, stepped up to the free throw line. Tark called a time-out to let the freshman shooter think about it. Johnson bricked the shot.

“Aw, no!” said Karras.

Maryland guard Jeff Baxter drove the lane.

“Dish it to Bias!” said Murphy.

“Look out,” said Clay, “man’s got position in the paint!”

Baxter was called for the charge. The buzzer sounded. Maryland lost the game.

“Damn shame,” said Clay. “Bias had thirty-one points and twelve rebounds. And they still lost.”

“Got beat by the better team,” said Karras. “Outcoached, too.”

“Can’t wait to hear what Glenn Harris got to say about it tonight on HUR,” said Clay.

“Let’s Talk Sports,” said Tate. “The man knows his ball.”

The group scattered. Anthony Taylor asked Murphy for a ride up to his place, and Murphy told him to wait out front. Clay and Murphy remained in the back room.

“Kid’s afraid to walk home,” said Clay. “He heard those gunshots last night. Was chased by some boys in a car, too.”

“He say who chased him?”

“He’s afraid to say. Even too scared to tell me. But I figure it had to be Short Man Monroe. Take it to the next level, you gotta believe it was Tyrell Cleveland and Short Man were the ones involved in those murders.”

“How you make the leap to that?”

“Had breakfast with George Dozier this morning. You know him?”

“Homicide. Good man, got a good rep in the department. Went to Cardoza, about your age. Must have come up with you.”

“Right. George told me those kids were playing dealer on Tyrell’s turf. One of those kids called himself Chief. Short Man’s job is to keep that turf free and clear.”

“Keep going.”

“I was out the other night, came up on Alan Rogers and Short Man and Clarence’s daughter, Denice, out on the street. Your partner, Tutt, he was with ’em.”

Murphy shrugged, trying to hide the empty feeling in his gut. “Some kind of shakedown, I guess.”

“Plainclothes shakedown? Tutt’s a uniformed cop.”

“Tutt’s a little aggressive.”

“Denice,” said Clay, “she said Tutt and Short Man were arguing over a kid named Chief.”

Murphy’s heart jumped in his chest. He stared at the floor.

“Tutt’s dirty,” said Clay. “You must know it.”

“He’s my partner. And that’s a serious accusation.”

“Ain’t like you haven’t suspected it yourself. I told you just now, there wasn’t a whole lot of surprise on your face. Murphy? I’m talkin’ to you, man.”

Murphy felt himself break a sweat beneath his shirt.

“Okay,” said Murphy, “ain’t gonna deny that I’ve suspected it. What’re you gonna do?”

“What are you gonna do, Kevin?”

Murphy rose from his chair. “You tell George Dozier?”

“No. Was waitin’ to talk to you.”

Murphy buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Give me the rest of the day, Marcus, that’s all I ask. I need to confront Tutt my way. Need to settle things. By tonight I’ll have this whole thing worked out. Tomorrow I’ll go to George Dozier with what I know. That sound fair to you?”

Clay looked at Murphy. “Okay. A few hours isn’t gonna make any kind of difference. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” said Murphy.

“Come on,” said Clay. “Sounds like you got a day ahead of you. And Anthony’s having Sunday dinner with his grandmother. He needs to be gettin’ home.”

They walked out to the showroom. Cootch had the new Prince, “Kiss,” cooking on the house stereo. Karras and Tate were behind the counter, working on some numbers.

“Anthony,” said Clay.

“Yeah, Mr. Clay.”

“You dust out those racks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You took the records out first, right? Didn’t just dust around them, did you?”

“Cleaned ’em like you said to.”

“Here.” Clay gave Anthony a ten-dollar bill. “Good job.”

“Thanks!”

“Let’s go,” said Murphy.

“Call me later,” said Clay.

Murphy said, “I will.”

Clay watched Murphy and Anthony get into the black Trans Am parked out front. He turned toward Cootch and raised his voice over the music.

“Any customers, Cootch?”

Cootch shook his head. “Not a one.”

“What’s this we’re listenin’ to?” said McGinnes.

“Thin White Rope,” said Stefanos.

“Sounds like the singer’s on the toilet, strainin’ one out.”

“Tight group. Saw ’em at the 9:30 last week. Guy named Petersen, used to be in the Insect Surfers, opened up for them. Davey Con Carne, he calls himself now. Bad show.”

“Yeah, okay. Slow down, Nick, you’re gettin’ too close. He’s gonna make us, man.”

“‘Make’ us? Nice expression, Johnny, real street. What, did you hear that on Hardcastle and McCormick or something?”

“I think it was Scarecrow and Mrs. King.”

Stefanos pulled over to the curb as the Bronco turned left off of 14th and went down Colorado. The driver stopped behind a black Trans Am that was parked in front of an Irish bar.

“Salt-and-pepper team,” said McGinnes as a mustached black man stepped out of the Pontiac, locked it, walked over to the Bronco’s passenger side, and opened the door.

“Here we go,” said Stefanos.

The Bronco headed south. Stefanos and McGinnes did the same.

Bennet felt better driving, going around the Capitol and taking Maryland Avenue through Northeast, across town to Benning Road. Linney had found an Experience Unlimited tape in the glove box, and they were playing it loud with the windows down. It wasn’t too cold a day; just looking at the sunshine made them feel warm.

“EU is doin’ it,” said Linney.

“Bad jam,” said Bennet, touching his friend’s hand.

Bennet saw a girl in a tight pair of blue jeans walking down the street. He eased off the gas.

“Hey, check it out, Jumbo, it’s one of them Jordache girls.”

“Why you slowin’ down, man, you gonna ask her for a date? Better get you a phone book to sit on first, so she can see your little head over the window ledge.”

Bennet ignored Linney and sang out the open window: “You got the look I want to know bet-tah...”

The girl rolled her eyes and stopped walking until the Supra had passed.

“Too early in the day to be talkin’ to the girls,” said Bennet. “Cause you know the freaks come out at night.”

“Yeah, we’ll come back later when it’s dark, Chink, so I can watch you work your magic.”

They drove on into the Kingman Park area. Jumbo rubbed his stomach and pointed to a corner market.

“Hey, pull over, nigga, I need to get me somethin’ to eat.”

“Shit, Jumbo, ain’t you had enough today? Saw you put down five chili dogs at Ben’s after we collected all that money.”

“Pull the fuck on over, Chink. Damn.”

Bennet parked in front of a market with a riot gate pulled halfway down over its front window.

“They look like they closed,” said Bennet.

“They ain’t closed yet. Come on, man.”

“I don’t want nothin’.”

“Come on.”

Bennet and Linney went into the store.

A couple of minutes later the gold Monte Carlo came to a stop behind the Supra. The man behind the wheel cut the engine. He and the man who sat beside him got out of the Chevy and walked toward the market. They pulled black stockings over their faces and drew pistols as they entered the store.

Karras parked the BMW at the intersection of 17th and Irving in Mount Pleasant, and he and Clay walked up 17th, where they cut into an alley. Karras had visited Big Nick Stefanos once since Stefanos had asked him to counsel his grandson ten years back. Karras knew that the residents of the row houses on Irving used the alley as their primary entrance. Four houses deep into the alley, he saw Big Nick’s house.

Karras knocked on the front door. Through the windows he and Clay saw an old man coming slowly toward them, leaning on a cane. Two locks were undone, and the door swung open.

“Mr. Stefanos?”

“Yeah?”

The old man squinted, his milky, glaucomic eyes staring past Karras’s shoulder. He had lost all of his hair except for a few strays combed across the spotted dome of his scalp. He had lost a few inches of height as well, though none of the immensity of his hands. His thick horn-rimmed glasses hung crookedly on his large nose.

“Dimitri Karras.”

The old man showed his wide-open smile. “O yos tou Panayoti Karras?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Pete Karras’s son. Got a friend with me, Mr. Stefanos.”

“Marcus Clay.” Clay reached out and took the old man’s hand. Stefanos shook it.

“Ella,” he said, making a come-on gesture with his free hand. “Come on in. I was jus’ makin’ a little cafe.”

They entered a room that had been a sleeping porch, now finished off with paneled walls. An old couch covered with afghan blankets sat next to a green leather recliner patched with duct tape. The television played on a stand set against the wall. Steve McQueen was engaged in a card game with Eddie Robinson onscreen.

“Have a seat,” said Stefanos. “You two want coffee?”

“That would be good,” said Karras as he and Clay took a seat on the couch.

“Watch a little TV if you want. Playhouse Five, they used to run Randolph Scott Westerns on Sunday afternoons. No more. But McQueen, he’s all right. Makes a pretty good cowboy, too.”

“We’re okay,” said Karras. “Take your time.”

Stefanos returned ten minutes later with a tray of three tiny cups and saucers, the cane hooked over his forearm. They didn’t rise to assist him.

He placed the tray on a small end table by the couch. They helped themselves as Stefanos took his cup and saucer and settled in the recliner.

Clay looked in his painted ceramic cup, small as a doll’s set. The cup was half filled with something thick and black as tar. He took a sip of bitter caffeine.

“What brings you here today?” said Stefanos, looking toward the sunlight coming through the porch windows.

“Wanted to drop this by,” said Karras, leaning forward and pressing a folded bill in Stefanos’s big hand. “I owe your grandson some money. Good excuse to come by and see how you were doin’. I was visiting my mother today, and I thought of you.”

“Where’s Eleni, Gate of Heaven?”

“She and my father both.”

“Uh. Me, I’m gonna be in Brentwood, with all my friends.” Stefanos slipped the bill into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. “What is this, so I can tell Niko, in case he calls.”

“Hundred dollars.”

“C-note, huh?” Stefanos grinned. “What’d he do to earn it?”

“Followed someone for me and Marcus.”

“Him and that bufo friend of his, McGinnes, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Goddamn joker.” Stefanos turned his head. “You see Niko, or just talk to him on the phone?”

“I saw him the other night.”

And I fed his nose with some high-octane flake.

“How’d he look to you?”

Wired. All twisted up inside.

Karras said, “He looked good.”

“He ain’t happy,” said Stefanos. “He married this Amerikanitha, she’s always pushin’ him to work harder, climb the ladder, get more serious, like that. I raised him, you know; he’s like my son. He is my son. I’m worried about him.”

“Gotta find his own way,” said Karras.

“Young people today, they’re so set on makin’ chrimata, like the money is the whole point. It ain’t the money. It’s the journey, katalavenis?”

“Sure, I understand.”

“It’s enjoying what you do, every goddamn day.” Stefanos drank some of his Turkish coffee. “Aaah. Anyway, what you up to, re?”

“I work for Marcus here.”

“O Mavros?”

“Ne.”

“What kinda work you do, Clay?”

“Own a few record stores, Mr. Stefanos.”

“Call me Nick.”

“Okay. Nick.”

“Bravo. Good to own your own business, eh?”

“Yes, it is. Little nerve rackin’ when payroll comes due every week. But, yeah, it’s good.”

“Had my own place on Fourteenth and S.”

“I know the place. Nick’s Grill.”

“Right!”

“You and me had a good talk one day, when I was a kid.”

“Hope I treated you okay.”

“You did.”

Stefanos smiled crookedly. “Yeah, nothin’ like havin’ your own place. ’Specially from where I came from, just a stone hut in the mountains, to having a store of my own. Just to put my key in the door, to my place, every day... it was somethin’.”

“You make it sound easy,” said Clay.

“Not always.” Stefanos frowned. “There was this one time, these men came and tried to shake me down in my own grill. Your father was there, Thimitri; this must have been, I don’t know, nineteen forty-nine. Goddamn, almost forty years ago. O patera sou, and Costa, and a man named Lou DiGeordano. And this big mavros named Six, bouncer I had at the time. I remember the way I felt, that these men were going to take away a piece of my business, something that I had built up with my own hands and sweat.”

Clay looked at the old man. “How’d you handle it, Nick?”

We slaughtered them like animals in the back of the store. We killed them with machetes and pistolas and cut them into pieces.

Stefanos placed his cup and saucer on the end table. “We convinced them to leave us alone.” He looked in the direction of Clay. “It was important to send them a message. You know what I’m talkin’ about, Clay. You got a business yourself.”

“Yes,” said Clay.

Karras drained his coffee. “We better get goin’, Nick.”

“Hokay, boy. Appreciate you lookin’ out for Niko.”

“Sure thing.”

“Nice seeing you,” said Clay, taking the old man’s hand. “We’ll find our way out.”

“Good meetin’ you, Clay. Thimitri.”

They left him there on the porch, staring at the blurred images on the television screen. He listened for the door and their footsteps going down the iron stairs to the alley.

Nick Stefanos closed his eyes. He smiled slowly at the pictures running through his head: blond women in flowered dresses, men in pinstriped suits and felt hats, a crisp white apron, a cold bottle of Ballantine ale, a shiny Buick Roadmaster, red and black chips and face cards spread on green felt, bacon sizzling on a hot grill, a ceiling of stars over Meridian Hill Park, warm breezes drifting off the water at Hains Point... wide, clean streets, running through a city of promise forever gone.

Clay, Karras, and Tate stood at the window, watched a canary yellow Lincoln with suicide doors come to a stop across U Street. Al Adamson, shaved bald, with a closely trimmed beard and wire-rimmed glasses, got out of the car and crossed the street. Karras noticed the cut of Adamson’s biceps beneath his black sport jacket.

“Al’s lookin’ serious,” said Karras.

“Yes,” said Clay.

“See he still works on those Continentals.”

“His specialty.”

“That,” said Karras, “and fuckin’ people up.”

“Feels like we got an edge, now, doesn’t it?” said Clay. “Just knowin’ he’s on our side.”

Tate let Adamson in the front door. Adamson shook Tate’s hand, then gave Clay a handshake that the two of them had invented back in their unit.

“Good seein’ you, man.”

“Good to see you.”

Adamson nodded at Karras, a light in his eyes. “Long time, Karras. Where your Hawaiian shirt at?”

“Has been a long time,” said Karras.

“Ya’ll heard the radio?” said Adamson.

“What?” said Tate.

“Another shooting today, this one over in Kingman Park. Two young brothers got smoked in a market. Triggerman left the proprietors alone. Sounds like a gang hit. Add them to those kids last night and half a dozen others around town, and it looks like we’re about to set some kind of record here in D.C. Man on the radio said they’re callin’ this the ‘Red Weekend’ and shit.”

The men were silent as Adamson removed his glasses and steamed the lenses with his breath. He rubbed them clean on the lapel of his jacket. He fitted the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“Marcus,” said Adamson, turning to Clay. “Let’s talk about your problem.”

“They’ll be down here soon, I reckon,” said Clay. “We best get it together, figure out what we’re gonna do.”

“My knees were knockin’ together,” said Karras. “Guess you could hear ’em, right, Clarence?”

“Thought that sound was comin’ from me,” said Tate.

Karras, Clay, Tate, and Adamson stood at the window, watching Tyrell and Monroe talking in the street.

“You told a lie, Marcus,” said Adamson.

“What lie?”

“You told that boy you were gonna open-hand him. Could be wrong, but it looked to me like you struck him with your fist.”

“Did I?”

“Uh-huh. And you hit him right where his nose was already broke, too. Couldn’t you see that was gonna hurt real bad?”

“Meant to just tap him a little.”

Adamson adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Wonder who did the original damage to that boy’s face.”

“That was Marcus, too,” said Karras.

“See?” Adamson smiled. “Cleveland was wrong. You are hard, Marcus.”

“Nah,” said Clay, trying not to grin. “Not really.”

But when Rogers found a pay phone and dialed the number, it was Murphy on the other end of the line.

“Need to talk to you, Alan.”

“What about?”

“I’m takin’ Tyrell down tonight.”

“That right.”

“Yes. Wanted to give you the chance to walk away.”

Rogers licked his lips. “What I gotta do?”

“I’m alone,” said Murphy. “I’ll be sittin’ in my Pontiac at Fifteenth and U.”

Rogers said, “I’ll be right down.”

Tyrell Cleveland squatted on the hearth and placed a fresh log on the fire. The flames heated his rayon shirt and beaded his forehead with sweat.

“Damn, cuz,” said Antony Ray. “Don’t need no radiators in this joint, way you keep that bonfire goin’.”

“Like it, man,” said Tyrell. “Makes me feel good.”

“How this gin make me feel,” said Short Man Monroe, seated next to Ray at the round wooden table, a plastic cup of Gilbey’s and pineapple held loosely in his hand. “Cash good.”

“You don’t look so good, black,” said Ray.

“I’ll take care of my shit tomorrow,” said Monroe, his face ugly, twisted, streaked with dried blood. “Gimme some of that boat, man.”

Ray handed Monroe a lit joint and dipped his index finger into the coke heaped on the mirror. He rubbed some freeze on his gums. He swallowed half his drink and shook a Newport from the deck. Ray put fire to his smoke.

Alan Rogers came out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He had tried talking to Eddie, but he wasn’t certain if he had gotten through. Golden’s eyes had crossed in on each other all the way, and he was lying funny on the bed, like one of those retards Rogers had seen once. There were bruises and shit all around his mouth. And Golden’s arm, it looked fucked for real.

Rogers walked slowly to the living area, where Tyrell stood to his full height.

“How’s our Golden boy doin’?” said Tyrell.

“Not so good,” said Rogers, looking at Ray.

“Did exactly what you said to do,” said Ray, elbowing Monroe, who coughed out a hit of pot treated with Raid.

“He shouldn’t have lied,” said Tyrell. “You ain’t got no problem with the way we been hostin’ him, do you, Alan?”

“Nah, Ty,” said Rogers, trying to smile. “You know we all right.”

“Good. ’Cause you don’t like things around here, you can always think about goin’ somewhere else.”

“Have to get his ride fixed first,” said Ray.

“Get that raggedy-ass piece of shit towed off the highway where he left it,” said Monroe, dropping the joint in the ashtray and resting his hand on the grip of his Glock.

“Go on, boy,” said Ray, motioning toward the dining area. “Make yourself useful and put on some music.”

“Yeah,” said Monroe, picking up his toothpick off the table and fitting it in the side of his mouth. “And quit actin’ like a bitch.”

Rogers went back to the stereo, slipped Trouble Funk’s live album out of its sleeve. He placed the record on the platter, dropped the tone arm onto the vinyl, and turned up the volume. The multilayered go-go sound came forward: drums, then bass, then call and response.

“This shit is live,” said Monroe.

“All the way live,” said Ray, touching Monroe’s hand.

Tyrell went to the bay window, looked at the headlights coming down the gravel drive. The Bronco came to a stop within the arc of the porch light.

“Here come our boys,” said Tyrell.

Tyrell eyed Tutt and Murphy as they stepped out of the truck. Murphy went around the Bronco, dropped the tailgate, took off his jacket, and threw it in the back. He retrieved a pillowcase and set it on the ground, pulled a double-holster gun belt from the pillowcase, and buckled the belt around his waist.

“What are they doin’?” said Ray.

“Officer Murphy’s strappin’ on a couple of revolvers,” said Tyrell. “And now he’s puttin’ on his badge.”

“Fuck’s he doin’ that for?”

“I didn’t know better,” said Tyrell, “I’d say he was gettin’ ready to make an arrest.”

Clay parked his car on Takoma Avenue, along the railroad tracks in Takoma Park. He locked the car, stopping to admire it before he crossed the street to Jequie Park.

Kids played on brightly colored equipment while parents sat on nearby benches reading paperbacks. In the open field a dozen shirtless El Salvadorians were engaged in a game of soccer, while at the adjacent roughed-out baseball diamond a father pitched a whiffle ball to his young son. A freight train passed, its click-clack muting the children’s squeals and laughter and the bird sounds coming from the tall trees at the edge of the park.

Clay went to the half-court square of asphalt set near a sheltered picnic area, where a man dribbled and shot, laying the ball up off the painted wooden backboard and getting ragged net.

“Marcus.”

“How you doin’, man?”

“Workin’ on it.”

“You up for a game?”

“You ain’t gonna play me soft, are you?”

“Wouldn’t do that.”

Kevin Murphy bounced the pill to Clay. “Go ahead and shoot for ball.”

They played to eleven, Clay coming out on top by four. The second game was more even, with Murphy tying it up, ten-ten.

“Gotta win by two, right, Marcus?”

Clay nodded. “Your ball.”

Murphy won the game on a shot from the top of the key.

“You gave me that one.”

“No, I didn’t.”

But Clay was lying; he was playing Murphy soft, avoiding contact with the man’s left side. It bothered Clay, seeing Kevin like that, knowing that this was Murphy now, and it was him forever.

Murphy’s game, though, it was improving fast. He’d spent the last month dribbling, getting his balance back, driving to his left, learning how to move in a different way.

“Rubber match?” said Murphy.

“Right.”

They sweated through their T’s, going full out in the best of three. Murphy made a good effort, but he lost his wind halfway into the game, and Clay turned it on. He rejected the ball when Murphy drove left and tried to lay it up. Clay sank the next bucket, a shot that bounced straight up off the rim, came down, and went right through.

“Got some forgiving buckets here,” Clay said, shaking Murphy’s hand. “You almost had me.”

“Never could go to my left. Told you that.”

Clay and Murphy had a seat on a grassy slope by the street.

“So how’s it goin’?” said Clay, lifting his T-shirt and wiping the sweat from his face.

“It’s okay. Workin’ this summer youth program down in Ward Eight. Got plenty of young brothers I’m tryin’ to guide. Funny how quick I got attached to ’em.” Murphy looked out across the park. “Almost like havin’ sons of my own.”

“Thanks for that picture of Anthony,” said Clay.

“Thought you’d like it,” said Murphy. “Lula Taylor sent me an extra.”

Clay spit to the side. “They payin’ you down at that program?”

Murphy shook his head. “It’s volunteer work. I don’t need the money. Got my pension, and the disability payment alone’s gonna carry me for a long time. You lose a limb, man, it’s more valuable than if you lose your life.”

“Sweet how the department took care of you.”

“Had to. Oh, they knew somethin’ was off about me and Tutt. Couldn’t prove it, but they knew. Course, you went and tore up that note. Another thing I need to thank you for, besides sending the troops in like you did. Them gettin’ there so quick, it saved my life.”

“Good thing you passed out.”

“Yeah, IAD never did have a chance to talk to me alone. When I woke up in the recovery room, Elaine was right by my side, holdin’ my hand, tellin’ me to keep my mouth shut. She and that other lawyer—”

“Williamson?”

“Yeah, him. One who looks like El DeBarge? He did a helluva job for me.”

Clay laughed. “Man does look like DeBarge. But he’s a damn good lawyer.”

“And Elaine, don’t forget her. None better than your wife.”

“She is somethin’.”

Murphy stroked his mustache, salted now with gray. “In the end, I guess the department figured it was easier to give us medals than it was to prosecute. Considering what’s goin’ on out there now, they thought it was better for the public’s morale, too. Made heroes of me and Tutt. You believe that?”

You are a hero, thought Clay.

Murphy pulled grass from the ground and shook his head. “One thing’s for sure. Tutt would have loved that fancy procession they gave him, all those officers cryin’ over him and shit.”

“‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’ Heard that in this Western I saw one time, down at the Keith’s.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Hell, man, I don’t know.”

Clay and Murphy smiled.

“How’s Wanda doin’, Kevin?”

“She’s got her days. They’re tryin’ to treat her with pills now, so we’ll see. I’m not givin’ up, Marcus. No matter what goes down in this life, there’s always hope.”

“There it is.”

“Come on, man. Got to fix Wanda dinner. Need to be gettin’ home.”

“Yeah, I need to be gettin’ home, too. You got wheels?”

“Not anymore. I walked over from Whittier.”

“I’ll drop you, man. My short’s right across the street.”

“It’s all the same to you, I’ll walk home. But I would like to check out that ride.”

They crossed the street and stood by the trunk of the car, the boat-tail rear waxed and beautiful in the golden-time light.

“Damn,” said Murphy. “That’s a pretty-ass Riviera. Seventy-three?”

“Seventy-two. Elaine bought it for me. It ain’t exactly like the one I owned. But it’s close enough.”

“Tell you somethin’. You got a woman like that, you don’t ever want to let her go.”

“I know it, brother. Believe me, I know.”

“See you next week?” said Murphy.

Clay said, “Bet.”

Kevin Murphy turned and walked east along the railroad fence, the atrophied stub of meat dangling from the sleeve of his T-shirt.

Clay watched him go, then drove away.