He got his bearings, trying to figure where Donut lived from here. Wasn’t all that far, just a few blocks south and then east. He started walking that way, keeping his head down low.

THAT same night, on the other side of Oxon Run, near an elementary school in Congress Heights, Dewayne Durham sat in his Benz, parked on Mississippi Avenue, surveying his troops. Next to him sat Bernard Walker. Walker had the new Glock 17, purchased from Ulysses Foreman, resting in his lap. His head was moving to that Ja Rule he liked, “I Cry,” as he finger-buffed the barrel of the gun.

“We did some business tonight, Zu,” said Durham. “Made a whole rack of money out here.”

“Weather’s good,” said Walker. “People want to get their heads up when it’s nice out.”

“Thinkin’ of adding some bodies to the army.”

“We could use it.”

“That kid, the one ridin’ the pegs on that bike this afternoon, back by Atlantic? The one I tried to tip some money to?”

Walker nodded. “Quiet boy, gets respect.”

“Him. He got a father you know of?”

“Ain’t even got much of a mother, what I’ve seen. He’s out all hours of the night.”

“We’ll put him on the crew. That’ll be his new family right there. I’m gonna start him as a lookout down here, soon as school lets out.”

“That ain’t gonna be but another week or so.”

“We’ll start him then.”

Durham looked up at the school from their position on the street. Boys stood around the flagpole, holding the portioned-out mini-Baggies of marijuana and some similarly portioned, foiled-up units of cocaine. The dope went hand-to-hand from the runners to the sellers, who stood on the midway and corner of the strip. Lookouts rolled up and down the street and on surrounding streets on their bikes. They carried cells with them to phone and warn the workers positioned around the school in the case of any oncoming heat.

The elementary school sat on a rise, and behind it were a couple of boxy apartment buildings and some duplexes going up the block, all backed by a series of alleys. Across the street was a field leading to the woods of Oxon Run.

Dewayne Durham had chosen this spot because of the many avenues of escape. The police from 6D rolled by regularly, and once in a while they stopped, using their mikes and speakers or sometimes just yelling from the open windows of their cruisers for the boys to get on home. On rare occasions they got out of their cars in force and gave half-assed chase, but they never followed the troops into the woods. Every so often the police would roll in with a major shakedown and make a few arrests, but it did nothing to slow down the business. Marijuana possession, up to half a pound, was a misdemeanor in the District, so if the kids did draw an arrest, priors or not, they generally did no time. They were also out on the street in a very short period; in D.C. a bond was as easy to come by as a gun.

Dewayne’s choice of location had to do with the convenience of the school grounds as well. You could hide drugs in several spots, especially around the flagpole, where holes had been dug out and re-covered with turf for just that purpose. Or you could just drop the goods in the grass if you had to, things got too deep.

So this was a good spot. Horace McKinley and the Yuma Mob had one almost like it on the southern side of the park.

Up by the flagpole, Durham could see Jerome “Nutjob” Long and Allante “Lil’ J” Jones standing around, giving occasional orders to the troops.

“I need to drop by my moms,” said Durham. “Maybe we’ll see my brother somewhere if we drive around, too.”

“Where he’s stayin’ at now?”

“I don’t know. He shows up at my mother’s from time to time, but he ain’t been there lately. Probl’y with that friend of his, calls himself Donut, down around Valley Green.”

“The one be sellin’ dummies?”

“That’s the one.”

“You worried?”

“I don’t like that fool havin’ a gun.”

“You wanna book out now?”

“Sure. Nut and J can take care of things. We’ll swing by again later on. Give Nutjob the gun.”

“You sure?”

“He needs to get used to holdin’ it. And get the money from ’em while you’re there.”

“Right.”

Walker slid the Glock under his waistband as he got out of the car. He crossed the street and went up the rise to the flagpole, chin-signaling one of the sellers, who held the money, as he passed. The seller followed Walker up the hill.

Walker had a look around the street before passing the gun over to Jerome Long.

“Here you go, Nut. Take care of things.”

Long glanced down at the gun as he weighed it in his hand. “It’s live?”

“Yeah, you all set.”

Long took the automatic and slipped it under his shirt and behind the belt line of his khakis. He wore the flannel shirt tails out. Though it was already too warm this time of year to have flannel on his back, he favored the material for three seasons because he liked the way it looked on him. It went nice with his khakis and his Timbs.

“I’ll hold it down, chief,” said Long.

The seller handed Walker a thick wad of cash and jogged back down the hill.

“We’ll roll on back in here in a while,” said Walker, stashing the money in his jeans. He turned and went down to the idling Benz.

Long and Jones watched the Benz pull off and move down the street.

“That gun looked new,” said Jones.

“They went to see Foreman this afternoon,” said Long. “So I guess it is.”

“Why Zulu show you all that love just now?”

“What you mean?”

“Why he give that gun to you and not me?”

“Gave it to the first one of us he came up on, I guess. Anyway, we both in charge, you know that.”

“Can I hold it?”

“Nah, uh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“Dewayne and Zulu wanted you to hold the gun, they would’ve put it in your hand.”

“Damn, boy, why you do me that way?” Jones looked over at his friend. “Feels good to have it, though, right?”

“Yeah,” said Long. “I dare a motherfucker to start some shit out here tonight.”

JAMES and Jeremy Coates had been drinking and smoking hydro since the afternoon, and now James was getting stupid behind it, daring other drivers at stoplights with his eyes, flashing that kill-grin he had, shit like that. Jeremy had seen him get like this too many times before, but he knew better than to comment on it, and anyway, Jeremy’s head was all cooked, too.

James called himself J-1 and Jeremy called himself J-2. They had argued briefly over who would get the number one designation at the time they had come up with the names. James had won the argument, since he was the older of the two.

They had been driving around for an hour or so, looking for girls, rolling up in the usual spots, the Tradewinds and other places in PG, but as yet had found no luck.

The cousins had not done well with D.C. women. They were not attractive in any way, though they did not know this or would not admit it, and they had not yet found their sense of city style. So if they had women at all, they usually had to buy them with money or drugs. Sometimes, if the girl was game, and sometimes even if she was not, they would share a girl or scare one enough to give herself up.

Often they couldn’t even tempt a girl into the car with cash or cocaine. This had been one of those nights. James and Jeremy looked an awful lot alike: Both were small and wiry, with bulbous noses and thyroid-mad eyes, and when they were high and sweaty like they were now, it scared girls some to look at them. Scary or no, the Coateses didn’t like to be turned down. James especially, when he wanted some of that stuff and couldn’t get it, he got mean.

They were driving through Washington Highlands on Atlantic, going over the drainage ditch of Oxon Run. Jeremy was under the wheel of their beige-over-tan ’91 240SX, shifting into third on the five-speed as he pushed the car up the hill. It was a four-cylinder rag, but they hadn’t known that or even asked about it when they’d bought the car. It had a spoiler on the back of it, and it looked kinda like a Z, so they had figured the ride was fast.