“Ah, yeah, you're trying too hard, then.”

“That's why you love me.”

“Yes, it is,” Sampson said and finally grinned. “If lovin' you is wrong, I don't want to be right,” he talk-sang a familiar lyric.

We met Roadrunner Alvin Jackson around the corner.

Sampson and I had occasionally used Alvin as a snitch. He wasn't a bad man, really, but he was living a dangerous life that could suddenly get much, much worse for him. He had been a decent high school track star who used to practice in the streets. Now he was running a little base and selling smoke as well. In many ways, Alvin Jackson was still a man-child. That was important to understand about a lot of these kids, even the most dangerous and powerful-looking ones.

“Thalilshanelle,” Alvin said as if the three words were one, “you still lookin' for information on who ice her and alladat?”

Alvin's car coat was unbuttoned. He was sporting the current fashion look that's called jailin', or baggin'. His red-and-white pinstriped underwear was visible above the waistband. The look is inspired by the fact that a prisoner's belt is taken away in jail, tending to make the trousers droop and the underwear be accentuated. Role models for our neighborhood.

“Yeah. What have you heard about her, Alvin, but no Chipmunks?” Sampson said.

“Man, I'm tryin' to do you a solid,” Alvin Jackson protested in my direction. His shaved head never stopped bobbing. His hoop earring jangled: His long, powerful arms twitched. He kept picking his Nike-sneakered feet up and putting them back down.

“We appreciate it,” I told him. “Smoke?” I offered Alvin a Camel. Joe Cool, right?

He took it. I don't smoke, but I always carry. Alvin had smoked like a chimney when he was a high school road-and-track man.

Things you notice.

"Lil' Shanelie, she live in my auntie's building. Over in Northfield? I think I know 'bout somebody maybe 'sponsible.