“What’s your point?”

“Why would I mind if you give me back my merchandise early? I’ll just go ahead and turn it over to someone else, ’cause I got the market locked up. The question is, though, why would you give it up so early? You had five days on it, man.”

“I was done with it. Thought I’d get some kind of credit on the time I didn’t use, sumshit like that.”

“Yeah, well, you were wrong about that. You want to turn that gun in early, that’s your business, but we don’t do no store credits up in here. Anyway, I done smoked up all that herb you gave me for it.”

“Damn, boy.”

Foreman’s eyes went to Durham’s pocket. “Let me have a look at the gun.”

Durham passed it low, under the sight line of the windows, to Foreman. Foreman looked in the rearview and glanced though the windshield, then turned his attention to the Taurus. He broke the cylinder and saw that it had been emptied. He smelled the muzzle and knew that the gun had been fired.

“You shot some off, huh?”

“A few.”

“To make that impression you were talkin’ about?”

“Nah, I didn’t need it for that, turns out. I just shot off the gun in the air a few times, late last night, like it was New Year’s or the Fourth of July. I was high and I wanted my money’s worth, is all it was.”

“Okay, then.” Foreman slipped the Taurus under the seat. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Twigs.”

Foreman watched with amusement as Durham’s eyes flared and his bird chest filled with air.

“I don’t like that name,” said Durham, his voice rising some. “I don’t want you callin’ me that anymore.”

“You don’t want me to, I won’t.” Foreman looked him over. “You need a ride somewhere?”

“Nah, man, my short’s just down the street.”

“Where you stayin’ now?”

“I’m up with a friend, why?”

“Just like to know where you’re at, case we need to hook up.” Foreman smiled. “Man returns his strap after one day on a five-day rent, he might just become my best customer.”

“Yeah, well, you need me, you can reach me on my cell.”

“Take care of yourself, dawg.”

“You, too.”

Foreman watched Durham walk down the hill, going in the direction of his “short.” The only cars he’d be headin’ toward was the ones parked outside the Metro stop. ’Cause that’s where he was going, any fool knew that.

Still, raggedy as Mario Durham did look, there was something different about him today. Stepping up and saying that he didn’t want to be called by that bitch name no more, for one. And his walk was different, too. He wasn’t puttin’ on that he was bad; he felt bad for real. Like he’d just got the best slice of pussy he’d ever had in his life, or he’d stepped to someone and come out on top.

Foreman was curious, but only because he liked to have all the street information he could. Knowing where the little man was staying, that was a bone he could give his brother, Dewayne, and get some points for it, if it came up. It was real useful to be holdin’ those kinds of cards, if you could. Mario had said something about laying up with a friend. Had to be that boy they called Donut.

Donut was a “dummy” dealer down by where he lived in Valley Green. He sold fake crack, wasn’t nothin’ but baking soda dried out, to the drive-though trade from Maryland. Those kids got fucked over, then were too afraid to come back into town for some get-back. Still, Donut was gonna get his shit capped someday for what he was doin’. Foreman had seen him and Mario together a few times, walking the streets.

Foreman’s cell rang. He unholstered it and hit “talk.”

“What’s goin’ on, boyfriend?”

“Ashley, you up?” Her gravelly voice told him she still hadn’t wiped the sleep out of her eyes.

“Got woke up by a call. It was that dude, Dewayne Durham?”

“Talk about it.”

“Says he needs something from you, if you got it.”

“Boy’s on a buying spree.”

“He says he don’t want nothin’ fancy. And no cutdowns or nothin’ like that. Says he doesn’t want to pay too much, ’cause it’s not for him. It’s for this kid he’s got, they call him Nutjob.”

“Jerome Long,” said Foreman, knowing him as a comer in the 600 Crew. He hung tight with his partner, a boy named Allante Jones, a.k.a. Lil’ J.

“Dewayne says he wants somethin’ today.”

Foreman thought it over. He had the Calico, the Heckler amp; Koch.9, and the Sig Sauer, and that was about it. He was low on product now. The H amp;K and the Sig would retail for more than Dewayne wanted to spend. That left the Taurus under the seat. Dewayne didn’t have to know that this was the gun Foreman had rented to his dumb-ass brother. Wasn’t like it had a body hangin’ on it or nothin’ like that. The gun had been fired, but it wasn’t hot. Foreman would just need a little time to clean it up.

“Call Dewayne, baby. Tell him to have his boy meet me at the house in an hour or so. And get yourself dressed, hear?”

“Why don’t you come back here and undress me first?”

Foreman felt himself getting hard under his knit slacks. He did like it when she talked to him that way.

“Tell Dewayne to make it an hour and a half.”

“I’ll be waitin’ on you.”

“Want me to pick up some KY or somethin’ on the way?”

“We won’t need no jelly. I’ll get it all tuned up for you; you don’t have to worry none about that. Hurry home, Ulee.”

“Baby, I’m already there.”

Foreman figured an hour and a half was plenty. He could knock Ashley’s boots into the next time zone and have the gun like new by the time Nutjob and his shadow came by.

Foreman pulled down on the tree, swung his Caddy around, and headed for the Maryland line.

BRIGHT and sunny days did nothing to change the atmosphere of the house on Atlantic Street. The plywood in the window frames kept out most of the light. The air was stale with the smoke of cigarettes and blunts, and there was a sour smell coming from the necks of the overturned beer and malt liquor bottles scattered about the rooms.

Dewayne Durham and Bernard Walker sat at a card table with Jerome Long and Allante Jones. The four of them had been discussing the shooting by the school and what needed to be done next.

“Those cousins just came up on us, Dewayne,” said Long. “James Coates was poppin’ off rounds and smilin’ while he was doing it. Wasn’t like we provoked ’em or nothin’ like that.”

“That’s how it was,” said Jones.

“The cousins,” said Long, his lip curling, “they sittin’ on the back steps of the house on Yuma, across the alleyway, right now.”

Long and Jones had been watching them from the kitchen window moments ago. They were over there, getting high with others from the Yuma, on the porch steps. James would look over toward the house on Atlantic now and again, and do that smile of his. Long hated that the Coates cousins were so bold, knew that in part he was hating on himself for his cowardice the night before. It was eating at him hard inside.

“Why you ain’t fire back last night?” said Walker. “I gave you my gun. You just want to look like a gunslinger or you want to be one?”

“I ain’t had no time, Zu,” said Long. “They came up on us so quick. I was about to reach for it when Lil’ J tackled me to the ground.”

“That’s how it was,” repeated Jones.

“We could make it happen right now,” said Long, “you want us to.”

“I ain’t lookin’ for no full-scale war in broad daylight,” said Durham. “This here is between you two and the cousins. You representin’ Six Hundred, don’t get me wrong. But it’s up to y’all to make it right.”

Dewayne Durham stared across the table at the two young men. He knew them better, maybe, than they knew themselves. Allante Jones was loyal to his bosses and his friend, fearless, and on the dumb side. Jerome Long was handsome, a player, and, considering his lack of education, smart. What he was missing was courage. He had always avoided going with his hands and he had never killed. This here was a test and an opportunity, to see if these boys were ready to go to the next level, and to reduce the numbers of the Yuma Mob by two, thereby weakening them and Horace McKinley. So it would also be good for business.