As we slogged our way back to the building, coffee and doughnuts in hand, a young woman hurried over to us as best as she could. “Catrina, you got to come quick,” she said. “Ms. Bailey ran upstairs to Taneesha’s apartment. She said you have to call Officer Reggie.”

Catrina shoved the coffee at me and ran off as fast as possible under the circumstances. Since tenants had a tough time getting the police to respond, Ms. Bailey summoned Officer Reggie, the cop who’d grown up in Robert Taylor, when the situation warranted.

“Where’s Taneesha live?” I yelled.

The young woman who’d summoned Catrina shouted back over her shoulder, “Twelve-oh-four!”

Approaching the building, I encountered a couple of J.T.’s gang members. They wore brown work boots and thick down jackets with the Oakland Raiders’ distinctive silver-and-black insignia. To me it seemed too cold for business, but I could see a steady stream of cars coming down the alley to buy drugs. White and black addicts jumped out of their cars and ran into the lobby to buy crack. As I walked inside, one of J.T.’s men shouted to me, “They’re up on the twelfth. Elevator’s broken.”

The stairwells were brutally cold. I had to stop a few times to catch my breath. I came across quite a few other people, all of them upset by the broken elevators. “Merry fucking Christmas,” one said to me bitterly as he passed by with a heavy laundry bag.

As I stepped into the gallery on the twelfth floor, I saw a group of men standing outside Apartment 1204. I recognized C-Note and a few other squatters among them. They were all moving about, trying to keep warm, some of them jumping up and down. The gallery floor was concrete, so even if you were wearing thick-soled shoes, the cold still shot up your legs.

The door of 1204 was partially open. Ms. Bailey stood over the sofa and, when she caught sight of me, beckoned me inside. I had met Taneesha a few times, most recently at her twenty-first birthday party, which J.T. had thrown. She was tall and very pretty, with long, straight black hair, and she was trying to make a career as a model. She currently modeled clothes at various nightclubs-so-called lingerie parties-and also went to college at night. She had a baby boy, Justin, named for her favorite high-school teacher, who had encouraged her to pursue modeling.

Everyone suspected that J.T. was the baby’s father. He had told me never to ask him about the baby.

The light in her apartment was dim, but bright enough to show that her face was beaten badly and her white T-shirt was stained with blood. Her breathing was labored, her eyes closed; you could hear the blood gurgling in her mouth. Another young woman held her hand and comforted her. “They’re coming,” she said, “the ambulance is coming. Just relax, ’Neesha.”

Ms. Bailey pulled me aside and asked if I would drive Taneesha to the hospital.

“I don’t have a car, Ms. Bailey,” I said. “Didn’t you call the ambulance?”

“Okay, then, do me a favor,” she said. “Ask C-Note to tell the boys in the lobby to take her.”

“What about the ambulance?”

“Oh, no, baby,” Ms. Bailey said softly. “They never come.”

I wasn’t sure whether to believe her, but at least fifteen minutes had passed since I’d arrived and there was no ambulance. Provident Hospital was only two miles away.

I walked out to the gallery and told C-Note, who simply leaned over and yelled down to the street twelve floors below. “Cheetah! Yo, Cheetah! Ms. Bailey says bring the car ’round! You got to take her to the hospital!”

“C-Note!” Ms. Bailey shouted out. “Don’t yell! He’s still in the building. Damn, we can’t have him leaving the building.”

I was confused. Whom didn’t she want to leave the building? Before I could ask, she rounded up the men and addressed them as if she were a general and they, however ragged, were her troops. “She got hurt pretty bad. She’ll make it, but she don’t look so good. I need you-all to find him. He goes by ‘Bee-Bee.’ He may be in 407, inside that vacant apartment, or at his cousin’s. I want to see him before you do anything to him.”

I figured out that the man who had beat up Taneesha was hiding in the building.

“What if he starts to run or gets crazy?” one of the men asked. “Can we get him then?”

“Yeah, I suppose, but don’t hurt him too bad before I talk to the fool. And don’t let him get away. Sudhir, could you call J.T.?”

I nodded and followed C-Note and the others as they made for the stairwell. I recognized most of them as squatters who helped C-Note fix cars in the warmer months.

As soon as we were out of Ms. Bailey’s earshot, I told C-Note I wanted to come with him.

“Call J.T.,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t mess around with this. Do what Ms. Bailey says, boy.”

C-Note had called me “boy” only a few times, the last one when a friend of his was caught in a knife fight and C-Note instructed me to watch from inside a car, where I couldn’t get hurt.

“I will, I will,” I insisted. “But I want to go.”

C-Note realized I wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Just stay near me,” he said. “But if shit gets crazy and I tell you to leave, you go, right? You hear me?”

Eight of us made our way down the stairwell, our breath leaving trails of hot steam in the frigid air. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask. Who was Bee-Bee and what was his relationship with Taneesha? Did C-Note and the other men know him? But we were moving too fast, and C-Note was preoccupied, his eyes ablaze.

We stopped just above the fourth-floor stairwell, since it was thought that Bee-Bee had taken refuge in Number 407. “Charlie, you and Blue go ahead,” C-Note said. “Shorty, you and them go to the other stairwell in case he runs past. Sudhir and me will stay in the back. Charlie, I’m right behind you, so if he got a knife, just let him go. I’ll get him.”

It struck me that I might not be as far out of the way as I’d planned.

All the men hurried to their positions. I could see the door to Number 407 from where I stood in the stairwell with C-Note. Charlie and Blue approached it. Like C-Note, they wore secondhand clothes and ill-fitting shoes. Charlie had a crowbar in his hand. Blue’s fist was clenched, but I couldn’t tell what he was holding.

Charlie knocked. The thin wooden door gave a hollow sound. All the other apartments on the floor had thick steel doors, but the CHA used wooden doors to designate which apartments were vacant. “Yo, nigger!” Charlie called out. “Hey, Bee-Bee! Taneesha says she wants to talk with you. Come on out. She says she’s cool with everything.” He looked back at us. C-Note waved his hands, signaling him to shout again. “Yo, Bee-Bee! Taneesha says she just wants to talk, nigger! I’ll take you up there.” Why would Bee-Bee need an escort to go back upstairs? I thought. And why on earth would he believe any of this?

Just then a voice rang out from the stairwell above us. “He’s on eleven, and he’s coming down the stairs! Get him, he’s coming down!”

C-Note instinctively pinned me against the gallery, letting Charlie and Blue go past. They stopped just inside the stairwell. C-Note and I crouched down a few feet behind them. The intense cold made me shiver. Charlie pressed his hand toward the floor a few times, motioning us to stand still. I had never heard the building so quiet. Apart from the wind and some cars in the distance, the only sound I could make out was a mouse or rat scratching around in the incinerator room.

Then, from above, I heard some distant footsteps turning into a rumble. Someone was running down the stairs, breathing heavily. I found myself grabbing onto the back of C-Note’s jacket. Charlie and Blue were crouched just in front of us. I made out what was in Blue’s hand: brass knuckles.

Just as the footsteps reached the fourth floor, Charlie jumped up and swung the crowbar, waist high. He struck Bee-Bee full-on, bowling him over.