'We got Twenty minutes,' he said to Divinity.

She was leaning against him as he drove the Ford Escort his father had bought him when Smoke had gotten his Virginia driver's license. Divinity started kissing Smoke's jaw and rubbing her hand between his legs to see if anybody was home.

'We got all the time you want, baby,' she breathed in his ear. Tuck school. Fuck that little kid you pick up.'

'We got a plan, remember?' Smoke said.

He was in running shoes, loose-fitting sweats, a bandanna around his head, tinted glasses on. He wound his way through streets within a block of the Crestar Bank on Patterson Avenue, in the city's West End, and spotted a small brick house on Kensington where there was no car or newspaper - no one home, it seemed. He pulled into the driveway.

'Anybody answers, we're trying to find Community High School,' Smoke reminded her.

'Lost in space, baby,' Divinity said, getting out.

She rang the doorbell twice and was met with silence. Smoke got into the passenger's seat and Divinity drove him back to Crestar Bank. The sky was pale and clear, and traffic was picking up as people began a new work week and realized they needed cash for parking and lunch. The bank's ATM wasn't doing any business at the moment, and that was good. Smoke climbed out of the car.

'You know what to do,' he said to Divinity.

He walked toward the bank as she drove off. He went around to the drive-thru where he could not be seen. It wasn't long before a young man in a Honda Civic hatchback parked in front of the ATM. Smoke came out from behind the bank, taking his time. The young man was busy making his transaction and didn't notice Smoke's angled approach out of range of the camera.

Smoke was so swift his victims were always too shocked to move. He slapped duct tape over the camera lens and the man's eyes. Smoke jabbed the barrel of his Glock pistol into the small of the man's back.

'Don't move,' Smoke said quietly.

The man didn't.

'Hand the money behind you real slow.'

The man did. Smoke looked around. Another car was pulling off Patterson, heading to the ATM. Smoke snatched the duct tape off the camera lens and ran behind the bank. He started jogging, turning on Libbie Avenue, then Kensington. He slowed to a walk in the driveway of the small brick house where Divinity was waiting in the Escort.

'How much you get, baby?' she asked as Smoke casually climbed in.

'Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred,' he counted. 'Let's get the fuck outta here.'

Judy Hammer couldn't believe it. This had to be one of the most bizarre things that had ever happened to her. Two white supremacists named Bubba and Smudge were going to murder a black woman named Loraine. She lived near some sort of old pumps where the killers would park and wait with engines and headlights off. Money was involved, perhaps several hundred dollars. Hammer paced, Popeye anxiously at her heels. The phone rang. 'Chief Hammer?' It was West.

'Virginia. What the hell was that?' Hammer asked. 'Any way we can trace it?'

'No,' West's voice returned. 'I don't see how.'

'I'm assuming we both heard the same thing.'

I'm still on a cell phone,' West warned. 'Don't think I should go into it. But it sounds like something we'd better take very seriously.'

'I completely agree. We'll talk about it after the presentation. Thanks, Virginia.' Hammer was about to hang up.

'Chief? What were you calling me about when I was on the track?' West quickly reminded her.

'Oh. That's right.'

Hammer searched her thoughts, trying to bring up what she was calling West about when the rednecks broke into their conversation. She paced, Popeye with her every step.

'Oh, I remember. We're already getting responses to our new website,' Hammer said, pleased. 'Since Andy's op-ed piece.'

'That worries me,' West replied. 'I think we should have done a little troubleshooting, Chief.'

'It will all be fine.'

'What are they saying?'

'Complaining,' Hammer replied.

'I'm shocked.'

'Don't be cynical, Virginia.'

'Any reaction to what he said about escalating juvenile crime? And Richmond's gang mentality about not having gangs, or however he put it? About the country's desperate need for radical juvenile justice reform?'

It was not lost on Hammer that whenever West talked about Brazil, West's attitude was sharp to bump up against. Hammer knew when West was hurt. Hammer recognized a sadness in Brazil as well, a light not quite so bright in his eyes, a sluggishness in the creative energy that so profoundly singled him out. Hammer wished the two of them would get along again.

'The phones started ringing off the hook about that the minute the newspapers hit the driveways,' Hammer replied. 'We're shaking people up. And that's exactly what we're here to do.'

Hammer got off the phone. She retrieved Brazil's op-ed piece from the coffee table and glanced through it again. … This past week our city's children committed at least seventeen cold-blooded felonies, including rape, armed robbery and malicious wounding. In eleven of these violent, seemingly random acts, the child hadn't even turned fifteen yet. Where do children learn to hate and harm? Not just from the movies and video games, but from each other. We do have a gang problem, and let's face it, kids who commit adult crimes aren't kids anymore…

'I expect my popularity just took another dip,' Hammer said to Popeye. 'You need a bath. A little of that good cream rinse?'

Popeye's black-and-white coat was handsomely reminiscent of a tuxedo, but her fur was very short, her freckled, pink skin very sensitive and prone to get dry and irritated.

Popeye loved it when every few weeks her owner would put her in a sink of warm water and lather her up with Nusalt antiseborrheic therapeutic shampoo, followed by the Relief antipruritic oatmeal and pramoxine cream rinse that her owner kneaded into Popeye's fur for exactly seven minutes, as the directions prescribed. Popeye loved her owner. Popeye stood on her hind legs and nuzzled her owner's knee.

'But a bath will have to wait, I guess, or I'll be late.' Her owner sighed and got down to Popeye's level. 'I shouldn't even have brought it up, should I?'

Popeye licked her owner's face and felt pity. Popeye knew, her owner was denying the grief and the guilt she felt about her late husband's sudden death. Not that Popeye had known Seth, but she had overheard conversations about him and had seen photographs. Popeye could not imagine her owner being married to a lazy, independently wealthy, fat, whiny slob who did nothing but eat, work in his garden and watch television.

Popeye was glad Seth wasn't around. Popeye adored her owner. Popeye wished there was more she could do to comfort this heroic, kind lady who had saved Popeye from being an orphan or being adopted by some unhappy family with cruel children.

'All right.' Her owner got up. 'I've got to get going.'

Hammer showered quickly. She threw a robe around her and stood inside her cedar-lined closet, deliberating over what to wear. Hammer understood the subliminal power of clothing, cars, office decor, jewelry and what she ate at business lunches and dinners. Some days required pearls and skirts, other days called for unfriendly suits. Colors, styles, fabrics, collars or no collars, patterns or plain, pockets or pleats, watches, earrings and perfumes and fish or chicken all mattered.

She shoved hangers here and there, deliberating, envisioning, intuiting and finally settling on a navy blue suit with trousers that had pockets and cuffs. She selected low-heel lace-up black leather shoes and matching belt, and a blue and white striped cotton shirt with French cuffs. She dug through her jewelry box for simple gold post earrings and her stainless steel Breitling watch.