Kent nodded barely. "I suppose that's fair." He folded his hands on his knees. "Still, you have to understand. This is half a million dollars we're talking about."

"I do understand." Washington fought the urge to use his preacher voice. "That money can buy food, education, and support for the boys in this neighborhood. It can give these kids something. Teach them that the world is bigger than Crenwood. I had to go to prison to learn that."

Kent chewed on his lip. "Tell me about it."

"What? Prison?"

"Why you went."

A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. Blood spatter like a red mist.

"I killed a boy." He felt stiff, his eyes far away. "I didn't mean to, but I did. Wasn't even an enemy of mine. Just somebody's little brother, got in the way."

"It was an accident?"

"I was in a gang, I carried a gun." Washington shrugged, his shoulders heavy. "Accident isn't the right word."

"What happened?"

The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette. Falling. A pause while the whole world drew a breath.

"It… doesn't matter."

"It might."

Washington sighed, shook his head to clear visions of that long ago day. "You know what happened? I picked up the gun. Ten years old, I swore myself to the Blackstone Ranger Nation, and I picked up the gun. Once you do that, life is just a clock ticking away. And before I put the gun down, I killed a boy and cost myself twelve years." The room felt claustrophobic, and he fought the urge to stand. "The specifics don't matter. What I did, it's done. It was real. I can't take it back. There's only two things I can do. I can promise never to pick up the gun again, not for anything. And I can help other boys put it down. Which is what I've done for fourteen years. It's why I came back." He stopped to gather his thoughts, realized he'd said all he had to say. "So it's up to you, Mr. Kent, and you, Alderman Owens. You're both good men. You make the decision."

For a long moment, the two of them stared. Washington sat straight, kept his eyes level, fought to the urge to beg, to say again how much good the money could do, how his boys were counting on it, knowing that anything he said now would be a waste.

Then the alderman looked at Kent, and raised an eyebrows. Kent shrugged. "Well, I guess if you're running a long con, it's the longest one in history." He smiled, then laughed. "Maybe I'm crazy, but I'm still going to give you the money."

Washington only realized his mouth was hanging open when he tried to speak. "Thank you."

"Two conditions." Kent counted them on his fingers. "First, I get veto power on expenditures over, say, a grand. Second, I want to be on the board of directors."

"The veto's no problem. But we don't have a board of directors."

Kent opened his briefcase and removed a ledger. Scribbled with a silver pen. "You do now." He tore off the check and handed it to Washington with a smile. "I made my money because I educated myself on every aspect of the business, and then went and fought for what I wanted. And I don't see why this should be any different. Because you're right. This isn't an underprivileged neighborhood, is it?"

Washington stared at the check. A five, followed by five zeroes. Jesus wept. Five zeroes. Half a million dollars. More money than he'd make in fifteen years at the library. Something bloomed in Washington's chest. "No sir." All these years, all the evil he'd seen, and people still could manage to surprise him with the good. "It's not."

They chatted for a few more minutes, details for the party on Friday night, logistics. The check lay on the table right beside the sheet with his prison record. After a few minutes, Kent looked at his watch, and Washington walked them to the door.

"Mr. Matthews," the alderman said, "so you know, this wasn't personal. I wasn't looking for that information, and it, well, it took me by surprise when I found it." Owens hesitated. "I'm very glad of what you're doing. No hard feelings, I hope?"

Washington supposed maybe he should be angry with the man, but couldn't find it in himself. "No hard feelings." Some debts weren't paid in money, and some were never truly paid at all. The boy with the cauliflower ear would walk with him for the rest of his life. And when he died, he expected to find the boy waiting.

Couldn't blame him, either.

He stood at the door and watched the men walk to a Lincoln Towncar, handmade Italian dress shoes crunching broken glass on the sidewalk. After they pulled away, he walked back to his den, dropped in his tired chair. Feeling worn but good. The war he fought had no end, and he knew he was on the losing side. He'd known that going in, but it was never easy to fight when victory was impossible.

But at least every now and then he won a battle.

"White guys?" Cruz leaned forward, stopped twirling her pen.

"Yeah," Palmer said. He looked ragged, dark pits blooming under restless eyes. "That's what Billy said."

"He's sure?"

Palmer shrugged. "He's eight, not color blind."

White guys. Another piece that didn't fit. Something was wrong here, and it had her stomach knotted. First, Michael Palmer's assertion of a conspiracy and his promise to deliver evidence, only to end up murdered less than a week later. Then the warning from Donlan. And after that, she'd arrived at work to hear about the attack at Michael Palmer's house the previous night, the 911 call, and report of gunfire.

Hence her stomach. "Where's Billy now?"

"In the breakroom. I wanted to spare him as much of," Palmer waved his hands in a gesture that took in the whole station, "this as I could. It's been a rough couple of days."

"Yeah, I bet." Cruz leaned back. "These white guys. Any idea who they are?"

He shook his head. "Not a clue. I only saw the gangbangers. The one I'd been calling Soul Patch, that you say is named Playboy." He nodded to the stack of photos on her desk, shots of known Gangster Disciples members and associates. Playboy glowered a Fuck You from the top of the pile. "What's with these guys' names?"

"Monikers. Like nicknames. Usually they pick ones that make them sound tough. We had a guy in here last year called himself Anthrax." She cocked her head. "I thought you Army guys had them, too."

"Only in Vietnam movies."

"You recognize anybody else?"

"No. I didn't get a good look at the other two last night, and the short one, the wrestler, he's not here."

The hit on Playboy was something, at least. Playboy, real name Louis Freeman, was a good lead – Gangster Disciples number two, a couple of priors for assault and weapons charges, suspicion of involvement in a stack of shootings. She'd spoken to him before, and he was smarter than a lot of his boys, which meant he might have had the initiative to pull something like this.

Only problem was, he wasn't white.

When the pieces didn't fit, you had two choices. Look for a new one that did, or push hard on the ones you had. "You still have no idea what they want with you?"

"Like I told you. They were after Billy."

"Uh-huh." She squinted. Paused. "It's just that I don't understand how all this fits together. I mean, your brother being killed by gangbangers, that would make sense. But if it was white guys, then why were the bangers after you? And why would they come after his kid?" Her gun was weighing down the side of her slacks, and she shifted. Clicked the pen. "See what I'm getting at?"

Palmer kept his hands in his lap, a wary expression on his face. "Not really, no."

"There has to be something else, some connection." Click-click. "I understand protecting your brother's memory, but if Michael was into something shady, I need to know about it."