I immediately ran into a problem. Because I’d been spending so much time with the Black Kings, a lot of the tenants wouldn’t speak to me except for a quick hello or a bland comment about the weather. They plainly saw me as affiliated with the BKs, and just as plainly they didn’t want to get involved with me.

Ms. Bailey, the building president, was one of the few tenants willing to talk. Her small, two-room office was located in J.T.’s building, where she lived as well. This was in the northern end of the Robert Taylor Homes, sometimes called “Robert Taylor A.” A few miles away, at the southern end of the complex, was “Taylor B,” where a different group of gangs and tenant leaders held the power. On most dimensions daily life was the same in Taylor A and Taylor B: they had similar rates of poverty and drug abuse, for instance, and similar levels of gang activity and crime.

But there was at least one big difference, Ms. Bailey told me, which was that Taylor B had a large Boys & Girls Club where hundreds of young people could shoot pool, play basketball, use the library, and participate in youth programs. Ms. Bailey was jealous that Taylor A had no such facility. Even though Taylor B was walking distance from Taylor A, gang boundaries made it hard to move freely even if you had nothing to do with a gang. It was usually teenagers who got hassled when they crossed over, but even adults could have trouble. They might get searched by a gang sentry when they tried to enter a high-rise that wasn’t their own; they might also get robbed.

The best Ms. Bailey could offer the children in Taylor A were three run-down apartments that had been converted into playrooms.

These spaces were pathetic: water dripped from the ceilings, rats and roaches ran free, the bathrooms were rancid; all these playrooms had were a few well-worn board games, some stubby crayons, and an old TV set. Even so, whenever I visited, I saw that the children played with as much enthusiasm as if they were at Disney World.

One afternoon Ms. Bailey suggested that I visit the Boys & Girls Club in Taylor B. “Maybe with your connections you could help us raise money for a club like that in our area,” she said.

I told her I’d be happy to help if I could. That Ms. Bailey saw me, a middle-class graduate student, as having “connections” said a lot about how alienated her community was from the powerful people in philanthropy and government who could actually make a difference.

Since Taylor B was controlled by the Disciples, a rival to J.T.’s Black Kings, Ms. Bailey personally walked me over to the Boys & Girls Club and introduced me to Autry Harrison, one of the club’s directors.

Autry was about thirty years old, six foot two, and thin as a rail. He wore large, round glasses too big for his face and greeted me with a big smile and a handshake. “You got any skills, young man?” he asked brightly.

“I can read and write, but that’s about it,” I said.

Autry led me into the poolroom and yelled at a dozen little kids to come over. “This young man is going to read a book to you,” he said, “and then I’d like you to talk about it with him.” He whispered to me, “Many of their parents just can’t read.”

From that day forward, Autry was happy to have me at the club. I quickly got to know him well. He had grown up in Robert Taylor, served in the army, and, like a few caring souls of his generation, returned to his neighborhood to work with young people. Recently he’d gone back to school to study criminal justice at Chicago State

University and was working part-time there as a research assistant to a professor who was studying gangs. Autry was married, with a three-year-old daughter. Because of his obligations at the club and at home, he told me, he sometimes had to drop classes and even take a leave of absence from school.

In his youth Autry had made his fair share of bad choices: he’d been a pimp and a gang member, for instance, and he had engaged in criminal activity. He’d also suffered the effects of project living- he’d been beaten up, had his money stolen, watched friends get shot and die in a gang war.

Autry sometimes sat for hours, leaning back in a chair with his skinny arms propped behind his head, telling me the lessons he’d learned from his days as a pimp. These included “Never sleep with your ladies,” “Always let them borrow money, because you got the power when they owe you shit,” and “If you do sleep with them, always, always, always wear a condom, even when you’re shaking their hand, because you just never know where they’ve been.”

We got along well, and Autry became a great source of information for me on how project residents viewed the gang. The club, it turned out, wasn’t a refuge only for children. Senior citizens played cards there, religious folks gathered for fellowship, and social workers and doctors provided free counseling and medical care. Just like many of the hustlers I’d been speaking to, Autry felt that the gang did help the community-giving away food, mediating conflicts, et cetera-but he also stressed that the community spent a lot of time “mopping up the gang’s mistakes.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They kill, sometimes for the most stupid reasons,” he said. “ ‘You spoke to my girlfriend…’ ‘You walked down the sidewalk in my territory…’ ‘You looked at me funny- That’s it, I’ll kill you!’ ”

“So it’s not always fights about drugs?”

“Are you kidding me?” He laughed. “See, the gang always says it’s a business, and it is. But a fifteen-year-old around here is just like any fifteen-year-old. They want to be noticed. They don’t get any attention at home, so they rebel. And at the club we’re always mop-ping up their mistakes.”

“How does that work?”

“Well, we settle shit when it gets out of hand. Like the other day-Barry knifed somebody from a different gang because the other boy was hanging out near his building. Just for hanging out! So I called my friend Officer Reggie, and we let the two fight it out.”

“Fight it out? I thought you said you settled it.”

“We did. That’s how you settle shit sometimes. Let boys fight each other-no guns, no knives. Then you tell them, ‘Okay, you-all see that you can fight without killing each other?’ ”

Autry told me that the club played a broad peacekeeping role in the community. He and other staff members worked with school authorities, social workers, and police officers to informally mediate all kinds of problems, rather than ushering young men and women into the criminal-justice system. The police regularly brought shoplifters, vandals, and car thieves to the club, where Autry and the others would negotiate the return of stolen property as well as, perhaps, some kind of restitution.

I never saw any of these mediations in person. Autry just told me about them after the fact. It didn’t seem as if he were lying, but perhaps bragging a little. He told me that he even invited rival gang leaders to the club late at night to resolve their conflicts. My conversations with Autry were a bit like some of my conversations with J.T.: it was not always easy to independently verify their claims.

One busy morning Autry surprised me by asking if I wanted to come to a private meeting at the club later that day. He explained that a few neighborhood organizations were planning a midnight basketball league.

It would be open to all teenagers, but the real goal was to attract gang members. Local community leaders liked the idea of getting unruly teens to play basketball at the club instead of spending their nights on the street. For the young men, the price of admission was to sit through a motivational speech by a pastor or some other speaker before each game. In exchange, the teenagers would get free sneakers, T-shirts, and the chance to win a trophy.

Autry’s work would soon command wide attention, when the Clinton administration used the Chicago midnight basketball league as a model for a nationwide movement. In reality there was only anecdotal evidence that the leagues reduced teenage violence, but in a climate where few programs were successful on any level, policy makers were eager to showcase an uplifting idea like midnight basketball.