In the bathroom Jason stared at the toilet until he felt the bile rising, then pinched his nose and vomited. Twice. Spat and flushed, gargled Listerine. Set the pistol on the counter and splashed double handfuls of cold water on his face, the streams running down his neck and into his shirt, icy rivulets that counter-pointed the needle-tingling of his legs. When he began to feel his strength returning, he dried his face on the hand towel and tossed it on the counter.

His brother was dead. The thought hit as he caught his stare in the mirror. Michael was dead. No. Murdered. And it was about time he found out what was going on.

Jason tucked the gun in the small of his back, straightened, and left the bathroom.

The apartment was a studio, one mid-sized room with a tiny kitchen at the end. He started making coffee, not trying to be loud, but not being quiet either. Wanting Billy to wake up to regular sounds. Before the gangbangers had arrived last night, the boy had started to seem better, and Jason needed that to continue. He poured Corn Pops in two cereal bowls, set spoons in with a clank. What did kids drink in the morning? Juice? He had some lime juice for gin and tonics, but that was about all. He figured what the hell, poured two cups of coffee, one black, one beige with milk and sugar.

The boy's eyes were open when Jason turned to set everything on the kitchen table.

"Morning, kiddo." He kept his voice light, hoping it didn't sound too fake. Billy yawned and sat up; then, spotting his bare chest, lay back down and pulled the covers to his neck. Jason smiled. "There's a T-shirt on the edge of the bed. Why don't you put that on and come have breakfast?"

Billy seemed reluctant until he saw that it was a gray shirt with ARMY emblazoned in black. His eyes bugged, and he grabbed the tee and pulled it over his head, then came to sit at the other end of the table, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When he saw the coffee, he looked questioningly at Jason, then took a sip. His lips contorted like worms.

Jason covered his smile with one hand. "Dig in."

They ate in silence, just the sound of metal clanking against plastic and the crunch of cereal under a play of soft gold sunlight. The coffee was strong and sharp, and Jason could feel it spreading through his belly, reviving his weary cells. When he couldn't delay any longer, he asked, "How you doing?"

Billy looked up from a spoonful of yellow milk. "Okay." His voice sounded a little trembly, but his eyes were sharp and undilated.

"Good." Jason sipped his coffee, thought about what to say next. "You know you're safe now, right?"

Billy nodded.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you." Jason bent forward, put his hand over his nephew's. "I promise."

The moment held for what seemed like a long time, and then Billy smiled. It was a quick thing, there and gone, but the sight of it went a long way toward easing the muscles in Jason's body. "But I need your help, okay? I have to know what happened yesterday. Before you came."

Billy stiffened, but didn't seem to be retreating into zombie mode. "Do I have to?"

"I'm sorry, buddy." He put as much comfort into his eyes as he could. "But I really need to know. It's important."

Billy pushed sodden cereal back and forth with his spoon. "I didn't want to run." He mashed a Corn Pop. "I got scared."

"That's okay," Jason said. "I've been scared before. I know what it's like. It makes you do things you don't want to."

His nephew nodded vigorously. "I wanted to help, but I couldn't move."

"Help who? Your dad?"

"They were hitting him." The lower half of Billy's face scrunched up, his chin quivering. "Dad told them to get out. They laughed, and then one of them grabbed a bottle and hit him in the head with it. And I didn't mean to, but I…" He trailed off, pushing his head deeper into his chest. "I peed myself."

Jason slid out of the chair to crouch beside his nephew, one arm around his shoulder. Fury tightened the muscles of his jaw.

"When I felt it, I moved, and I knocked into one of the shelves. I was in the back room, and they both looked up, and one of them walked toward me. I was so scared, I just stood there, and then Dad climbed over the bar and tackled the guy. He was bleeding, and the other one started kicking him, but Dad didn't let go. He yelled for me to run." He looked up in Jason's eyes. "He told me to. I didn't want to."

Jason nodded, understanding blooming bitter in his chest. "You did good." He squeezed his nephew's shoulder. "You did exactly right."

Billy straightened like guilt had been a hand pressing him down. "I ran out the back, and I kept going until I couldn't anymore. I was in a park and there was a big bush, and I crawled under it and hid. One of the men looked around, but he didn't see me. I waited there for a long time, and I guess I fell asleep." His words spilling fast, a poison he wanted to be rid of. "When I woke up it was morning, and I didn't know where I was, but there was a train station, and I remembered the stop where you lived, so I snuck on."

He thought of Billy alone, sleeping under a bush in a Crenwood Park, the kind of place cops wouldn't go into alone at night. Dealers slinging dimes and quarters, ragged whores giving ten-dollar blowjobs. Waking up to morning mist and daddy-long-legs crawling on him. His father already dead.

"The guys who came into the bar," Jason asked, his voice calm as he could make it. "Can you tell me what they looked like?

Billy nodded. "One looked normal. He mostly watched. The other was taller and really strong. He looked a little like the man in Who Framed Roger Rabbit, only he was bigger and meaner."

Jason almost smiled. The tape was one of a handful Michael kept at the bar for Billy. God bless popular culture.

Then it hit him.

"Wait a second. Which guy?"

"The guy," Billy said. "The guy with Roger."

Jason thought back to the movie, saw the actor's face. An Italian-looking dude. But-

"Billy, what color were these guys?"

"White," his nephew said. "The big one was bald, and the plain one had black and gray hair. They were wearing suits."

Jason stood up, walked to the window, stared outside at the corner below, where even at ten in the morning, a couple of slow-eyed men hung out. The sun fell hot against his face. The beginnings of another scorcher.

He'd been expecting to hear about a black man with a soul patch and a diamond necklace. Instead, Billy was telling him that two white men in suits had beaten and murdered his brother.

Mikey, what the hell did you get into? He felt a cold shiver up the back of his legs, a hollowness in his falling stomach. Recognized it.

Fear.

If it wasn't gangbangers that killed his brother, then who was it? And why? And what did that have to do with the gangs?

What in God's name was going on?

"Uncle Jason?" Billy sat on the edge of the chair, swimming in the Army T-shirt, his thin legs barely touching the floor. He looked like he was about to cry again.

"Hey, it's okay, buddy." Jason walked back across the room. "I'm sorry. It's not you. I'm just… sad." And confused. And totally out of my depth.

And God help me, scared.

He knelt down beside Billy, put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Thank you for telling me. I know it was hard."

Billy nodded solemnly.

"I want you to know something." Jason looked him in the eyes. "None of this is your fault. You did everything right. Everything." He smiled. "Your dad would be so proud of you."

Billy's lip trembled, and then he began to bawl, the tears streaming down his face. Jason leaned forward and took the kid in his arms, Billy hugging his neck like it was all that was keeping him from tumbling over a ledge.

"It's okay, buddy. It's okay." Jason stroked his back. "Go ahead and cry." He held the boy in his arms, feeling the warmth of his rag-doll body. And as he did, it hit him.