For a long moment they stared at each other, Jason and the closest thing he had to a father. Then Washington turned away. "Don't bring that gun in my house." He stepped through the screen door and let it slam behind him.

In the sudden silence, the insects seemed very loud.

Jason spun, anger already turning to something uglier, something the Worm liked. Took the rest of gin in a gulp. Fuck it. All of it. If it was him against the world, so be it. Maybe that was the way it had always been, and only now was he seeing it clear.

He'd forgotten Ronald was even on the porch until he heard the voice. "You know, my mama used to read me the Bible." The big man moved over to lean on the railing. His arms were knotted cordwood.

Jason sighed. "Yeah?"

The man nodded. "I liked the Old Testament. Isaac and Abraham. Moses."

"I never actually read it." Through the open window of a neighboring house, Jason heard angry voices, a man and a woman bitching with the casual anger of habit. He was back to nothing. The cops wouldn't help him. His friends wouldn't help him. His brother was dead. He was alone against enemies he didn't even understand. Hell, enemies he couldn't even identify.

"Never cared much for the New Testament, though." Ronald's voice was calm. "Mama was always on about Jesus, but I felt like you. Easy enough to turn the other cheek when your father's God, right?" He shrugged. "Me, I never knew my daddy."

Something in his tone caught Jason. He turned away from the darkness. "Ronald, there something you're trying to tell me?"

The big man smiled. "Just that Dr. Matthews isn't the only one knows the neighborhood."

There was parking closer to Dion's ratty-ass excuse for a headquarters – clubhouse was more like it, teenaged bangers sprawled all over the crumbling porch – but then Anthony DiRisio would have missed the march of a thousand murders.

Just past noon, and the brutal sun had driven the monkeys out of their shitboxes. They lounged on steps, stood on street corners with their shirts off. Musclebound homeboys flying colors openly, blue bandanas in pockets, baseball caps twisted to the right. Ten-year-olds trying out their war faces, baby fat and killer's eyes. And through it all, that hate, a burning black thread that stunk like sewage.

Anthony smiled, put all his contempt into it. Skydiving was for wimps. He measured his dick in hatred.

He walked slow, met stares. Some of them knew who he was, gave a grudging nod. The others read him for a cop, a detective, untouchable. Most just saw others give way and so they followed suit. Herd reflexes.

Anthony strolled along, knowing that his car would be untouched, that none of them would make a move on him. Buoyed by hate, he floated from the end of the block to the sagging bungalow. Greasy hip-hop flowed like smoke from the windows. Kids on the steps passed a thick blunt, the sweet tang of dope rising in the summer heat. Two OGs stood under the porch roof and watched him come, and he held their gaze every step, body alive, cells vibrating.

"To-nay D." The guy managed to make a Northern Italian name sound black. His eyelids drooped low, like Anthony wasn't worth the trouble of really seeing. "C-Note's waitin'."

Anthony smiled without using his eyes, climbed the steps, making the kids get out of his way. After the brutal sun, the interior was dim, and he paused for his eyes to adjust. Blue sheets had been nailed over the windows in lieu of curtains, and combined with the smoke, they gave the air an underwater feel. What light made it through seemed disappointed to spill on the battered couches and tattooed gangsters. A sudden silence met his entrance, just the music in the background. Then someone spoke, he turned, saw Al Pacino sitting behind a mound of cocaine.

"Lemme ask you," Anthony said, voice conversational. "You ever get tired of that movie?"

One of the kids on the couch lifted his forty, took a long pull, eyes on Anthony's the whole time. "Naw, Scarface is tight." He smiled a player's smile. "You ever get tired of those cheap-ass suits?"

That broke the boys up, and they bumped fists.

Anthony smiled. Walked over to stand in front of the kid. Waited for the silence. This close, he could smell the monkey's rank sweat. Let the tension draw out slow, then smiled, reach down slow, took the beer. Tipped it back and poured, the liquid warm and foul, but he kept his throat open, swallowing and swallowing till the bottle was drained. "No," he said, and handed the empty back. "I don't."

The banger laughed, tossed the bottle across the room, where it hit the carpet with a thump. "Don't bother me none, dog." He reached over to the table, grabbed another bottle. "I got plenty more."

"Big Anthony, my nigga." The voice came from the kitchen, where Dion Williams stood with his arms braced against the doorframe.

Anthony nodded, but didn't look away from the kid on the couch. "Hello, Dion."

"This way."

He held the stare for one more moment, then turned and followed Dion. The kitchen was filthy, every surface covered with bottles and takeout containers, blunts and menthols stubbed out on the counter. A fly buzzed lazy circles over a sink piled with plates. Anthony chose his steps carefully, hands at his sides, not eager to touch anything. Dion opened a door in the back wall, and the two of them stepped into his office, a Chicago-style second bedroom with barely room for the big desk and padded chairs. Anthony always had to fight laughter at the setup, like something bought off the floor at OfficeMax.

Dion settled behind the desk, his palms out on the table, fingers drumming. The motion caused the muscles in his arms to swell and ripple. Anthony sat and stared at him. Waited a long moment. Finally said, "You fix your screwup?"

Dion's eyes narrowed. "We been over that. You brokered that through Playboy, not me."

Anthony shrugged. "Thought he could take care of business. Didn't know you let faggots on your crew, Dion."

The gangbanger's nostrils flared, but he sat silent for a moment. Then said, "First off, you're talking about my boy, so you best ease up. Second," he said, "my name is C-Note."

"Whatever." Anthony let a little contempt into his tone. "You didn't answer my question."

"I sent some of my dawgs over to the address you gave us last night."

"So it's done?" He relaxed a little, leaned back in the chair. "The kid is dead?"

"Nah." Dion fixed him with a hard stare, as if daring him to do something. "Cops came."

Anthony felt that pain in his left temple, fought the urge to rub it. Took a deep breath. "What you're saying, then, is you fucked up again."

"You got one freebie on that tone. Don't try for two." Dion's voice was low. "You in my house now."

The threat hit Anthony right in the spine, that sweet tingle, and he almost told "C-Note" to suck his ropy white dick. The man's hands were on the table and even if he were strapped, no way he could pull as fast as Anthony could, his SIG in a quick-release shoulder holster. But Dion was still useful, at least for now, and so he just smiled, and pictured a bullet taking him in the eye, tearing away half of his head.

The right half, he decided.

"So the boy is still alive."

The gangbanger nodded, then leaned back, his hands behind his head, evidently satisfied at his dominance. "Yeah. But," he drew the word out, "now I'm taking a personal interest, he ain't going to stay that way. Not if you tell me where to find him."

Anthony snorted. "What do I look like, the Yellow Pages?"

"Told us where to find him so far."

"That was before." He tried not to show it, but his mind was racing. The situation had spiral potential. He'd wanted to handle the boy personally, but there were advantages to having the bangers do it, and he'd allowed himself to be convinced. And now the little shit had gotten away – again – and might be talking to who knew which cops.