Tee Ray almost said, “I’ve never used it,” but let it pass. He’d bought the gun from a street dealer two years earlier for protection. He couldn’t imagine actually shooting at someone. The Bulls were rival drug dealers known for their savagery, and Tee Ray felt weak in the knees. As if undercover cops weren’t enough to worry about, drug dealers also had to cope with rivals moving into their territory.

A year earlier, a now-famous drug deal in Little Angola had gone bad when two gangs and a bunch of narcs squared off in a raging gun battle in which, at times, it appeared as though everyone was shooting at everyone else. Three thugs were killed; one cop died; one was severely injured. For a month the editorials raged and the politicians railed, but after a year nothing had changed on the streets. Eight defendants were still awaiting trial. Crack was in high demand. Someone had to deliver it.

Tee Ray was certain he could avoid serious trouble, and he was determined not to use his gun. If he got caught and arrested, he would face his punishment like a man. But he would not, under any circumstances, kill anyone. He knew too many men who would die in prison. Trafficking could get you hard time, but using a gun could get you locked up forever.

He left the warehouse and drifted through the shadows and alleys of Little Angola. A chill was blowing in from the river; it was the coolest night of the season. He thought of Jameel and hoped the kid was where he was supposed to be-on the porch in a makeshift tent, reading a history lesson by the dim light of a small battery-powered lantern. If he wasn’t there, he would be at the YMCA playing basketball. He was already taller than Tee Ray, thin and limber and able to jump over the backboard. Scouts hung around the Y, and a couple had chatted with the kid. If he kept growing, he might escape the streets with an all-expenses-paid ticket to college. Tee Ray dreamed of this, but he wasn’t sure Jameel had visions of the big time. He wasn’t in love with the sport, wasn’t that motivated. Tee Ray feared his son might be one of those talented athletes who didn’t have the drive. Another head case too lazy to work.

Tee Ray’s phone vibrated. Tox told him to take a position near the river, at a place called Pier 40. Ten minutes later, Tee Ray eased into a public restroom, an empty, grimy place that reeked of too many strong odors to identify. A kid, wearing a Lakers cap, who looked to be about the same age as Jameel, walked in and said, “Tox said you got twenty.”

Tee Ray quickly handed over twenty bags. The kid was gone in seconds. Tee Ray waited in the only stall with a lock for five long minutes, then opened the door. If they had been seen, the kid was already handcuffed and the cops were waiting. But all was quiet. He hustled away, found an alley, and called Tox.

As he waited for instructions, he drifted across Little Angola. He checked the porch. Jameel was not there. He prayed he was at the Y. Tox called and told him to go to the Flea Market.

2.

The Flea Market was a city block burned and leveled by the race riots of 1968. Over time most of the charred remains were bulldozed and cleared. All the owners were either dead, gone, or indifferent, and the city eventually planted some trees, built some pavilions, and put in sidewalks and a pond. It granted permits for street vendors and merchants, and all manner of goods were for sale. The Flea Market became a busy place not only during the day, when housewives shopped the stalls for food and cheap clothing, but especially at night, when buyers from all over the city eased into Little Angola for crack and other drugs. White kids felt the area was safe enough for quick transactions. Blacks knew who was dealing and where to go. The cops had learned that if they could keep most of the traffic confined to one area, the rest of the town would be safer. Somewhat. They watched the Flea Market but seldom interfered. The trafficking could never be stopped; thus, the current wisdom was to try and maintain some order to its flow.

Current wisdom also required an occasional foray into the pit. If the dealers were not intimidated, they would grow bolder and expand their turf. Killing one or two a year became the sensible strategy.

Following instructions, Tee Ray walked to the southeast corner of the block, the darkest part of the Flea Market, an area where the streetlights were shot out with air rifles each time the city replaced them. Behind a row of empty stalls, Tee Ray met another nameless colleague. He dropped his Goodwill overcoat, removed the vest, handed it over, and quickly transferred his entire inventory in a matter of seconds. The man disappeared without a word, and Tee Ray grabbed his coat off the ground. He called Tox, who instructed him to return to the warehouse for another run.