Soon Mark appeared at the tree line, followed by many others, some of whom were making derogatory comments in Mark’s direction. Mark, as usual, seemed unfazed. He stepped around the community garden and met Lorenzo.

“You okay?”

“I got some pictures,” said Mark, sweaty, pink-faced, jacked on adrenaline.

Lorenzo looked around the field. Cars and trucks were pulling out, heading down the dirt alley. Mark was staring at Antoine Loomis, who was letting his animal into the backseat of a large black Mercedes sedan.

“You need to leave him be,” said Lorenzo, recognizing the look in Mark’s eye. “He don’t like lectures.”

“I’m just gonna have a few words with him.”

“You ain’t gonna convert Twan, that’s what you’re thinking. Some judge gonna do that eventually.”

“Just going talk to him, is all.”

“It’s not on you,” said Lorenzo, but Mark was already off, heading toward Loomis.

Lorenzo was intending to go to the Tahoe, radio in, and check on the status of the MPD, when he saw a man and a young man coming toward him. He recognized the older of the two and tried to place him. As he was doing this, Lorenzo realized that he had been leaning against the silver BMW. He moved off the car.

The two got nearer, and it came to Lorenzo who the older one was: Melvin Lee. Lee and Lorenzo had both come up in Park View. Lee had worked for Deacon Taylor, done time, come uptown, and was rumored to be working for Deacon again. Lee had made himself a rep when he was young. But looking at him now, Lorenzo realized that prison had broken him, even if Lee did not know this himself. Lee and his running partner stopped a few feet shy of Lorenzo.

Lee was all arms and legs, with a small torso, as if God had run out of the right size the day he’d made him.