"Jason Palmer, Ronald Wilson." Washington gestured from one to the other.

Jason stood and they shook, Jason expecting the guy to crush his fingers, surprised to find the grip firm but not macho. "You're Billy's friend."

Ronald broke into a smile. "Bills is fun. Hold him upside down for an hour, he still wants more." He stepped onto the porch. As the light fell across his forearms, Jason jerked backwards. He bumped the chair, and it teetered, then fell with a crack.

"Easy." Washington was on his feet and between them.

Ronald's gaze was calm. "Problem?"

"You tell me." Jason pointed at Ronald's arm, where a six-pointed star writhed in flames, surrounding the letters GD. The same tattoo Playboy had, or damn close.

Ronald nodded, lifted his arm and rolled it back and forth in the light. "My set mark. I was Fifty-fourth Street Gangster Disciples."

"You were."

"Yeah."

"Not anymore."

"Left almost four years ago." He tilted his head sideways. "Dr. Matthews helped me. I'd like to get rid of the ink, but can't afford it yet."

Jason blew air through his mouth. "Sorry, man." Shook his head. "Been a long couple days."

"So Bills said."

Washington eased out from between them, his eyes on Jason. "Ronald is my right hand. He's an example of what can happen if we work with kids instead of ignoring them. Helps me in a hundred ways, and even the new boys know not to mess with him."

"I can see why." Jason bent down, picked his chair up. "So, respect? That it?"

"Pretty much."

"Doesn't seem like enough."

"Why? It's not that different," Washington looked at Jason, "than finding a family in the Army."

He flushed. "It's goddamn worlds different."

Ronald spoke, his voice sounding like it came from a cavern a thousand years undisturbed. "I don't know 'bout the Army. But grow up around here, sometimes a set seems like all there is. I did my first shooting at thirteen, started selling dope about that time. Had a son when I was sixteen. His mama took him when she left. Back then, I didn't care. Just banged harder. I didn't need a son. My crew was my world. Till somebody gunned down my little brother. Took that for me to start seeing different." He fell silent, leaving just the night and the heat and the sound of men breathing.

"You see what I mean?" Washington finally asked. "Life for these kids is accelerated. Their whole world, it's burning."

"So what's the point?" Jason may have grown up a block away, but this wasn't his world. Never had been. Maybe because he'd never really considered the neighborhood home. Maybe something in the way he'd been raised, or the way he and Michael looked out for each other, or simply that his mother's white skin had helped her get jobs above minimum wage, even if she still needed three of them. Whatever the reason, somehow he'd sidestepped all of this. Teenagers killing each other over pieces of colored cloth, pretending bandannas were uniforms. "Why not just get out? Both of you?"

Washington stared, a long gaze that made Jason uncomfortable, like the old man was seeing through him. Jason took a slug of gin, his head throbbing heat and booze. The moment dragged on. When Washington finally spoke, his voice was soft. "You ever hear the story of the Rutupiae Light?"

"That a gang?"

"History, son." Washington shook his head. "In the fourth century, Britain was one of the most civilized places in the world. Culture, literacy, medicine, social rights, all the things we think of as advanced. There was a huge lighthouse at Rutupiae, where Dover is now, and every night they lit it. Mostly to guide ships, but it was symbolic too. So long as that lighthouse burned, Britain's enemies knew Rome protected the country.

"But it was hard times for the Empire. The glory days were behind, and they had enemies of their own. Eventually, they ordered their troops out, left Britain at the mercy of the Saxons. Barbarians. Painted their faces blue, drank blood, raided and raped and enslaved. That bad. Without the Legions, Britain was doomed.

"But there's a story says that the night the Legions sailed for Rome, a group of soldiers deserted. It was suicide. They were vastly outnumbered, couldn't possibly win. But they stayed, and they lit the Rutupiae Light."

"Hoping to fool the Saxons?" Jason snorted. "They couldn't've pulled that off for long. What, they died to keep a lighthouse going for a night or two?"

"That's one way to look at it." A gentle smile tugged at the edge of Washington's mouth. "Another is that faced with the end of a dream, they chose to stay and fight. To hold the darkness back. Even if only for a night or two." He glanced at Ronald like a professor calling on a student. "Know what they were called?"

The big man nodded toward the sign. "The Lantern Bearers."

Jason felt a wave of self-contempt. What an asshole he was. The Worm writhed within, its teeth pulling hunks of him. "Yeah."

Washington smiled, lowered himself into the chair next to Jason. Patted his knee. "People always talk about the 'Fall of Rome,' like one day there was a thud." Shook his head. "Didn't happen that way. Empires die slow and from the inside. Like cancer." He gestured at the darkened street, gin slopping inside the glass. "Like here. At the city's edge. We're covered with tumors, but nobody's looking."

Jason ran a hand across the back of his neck, massaged the sticky flesh. A breeze had picked up, warm and sweet with lilac and a hint of rotting trash. He thought of Billy, asleep with his thumb in his mouth, still wearing the Army T-shirt. Helpless. Trusting. Hunted. "Would it be okay if Billy stayed with you for a little while?"

"Of course." Washington stroked his mustache. "Why?"

Jason stood up and leaned against the railing, his back to the night. "I need to know everything you can tell me about the Gangster Disciples."

Washington's eyes narrowed. "Community interest?"

Jason smiled. "Recon." It felt right to say it. If Washington could rage against the darkness, if Ronald could, then he damn well could, too. "I'm going to stay and fight. Like you said."

Washington stared up, his face expressionless. Calculating. The smile withered on Jason's lips. A long and pregnant pause fell, just the night sounds and the blood in his veins and the booze in his head.

Then Washington stood. "You disappoint me, son."

The words hit like a slap. "What? Why?"

"When have I ever been about violence?"

"I'm not asking you to be. But you're the only one who knows all this stuff, all about the gangs, the neighborhood. I need to know what I'm up against."

"No," Washington said. "You're just acting a goddamn fool. You think that story is about fighting? You think I was trying to inspire you to march up to Playboy, pull your gun, prove how tough you are?" He shook his head. "Maybe your brother was right. Maybe you shouldn't have joined the army, that's all you learned."

Jason blinked, held his hands open at waist level. Watching Washington walk away. The man took three heavy steps, then pulled the old screen door, its hinges screeching. There was something in the way he turned his back on Jason, dismissed him, that made his anger flare, made words spill out. "That's it? You're not about violence, and that's the end of it?"

Washington pivoted, one hand propping the door open, eyes burning in the dim light. "That's right, son. I've been down that road. You know I have. I'll never do it again, and I won't help you do it."

"Somebody murdered my brother. Tried for my nephew. But I should just turn the other cheek." Jason shook his head. "You know the problem with that? Christ got his ass beat, old man. So forgive me if I want to fight back." He set the gin glass down hard, and warm liquid splashed onto the railing. "I'm asking for your help. If you don't have the guts, fine, bury your head in the sand. But I'm going to fight for Billy. He's all I've got and I'm not going to let anyone hurt him."