But Martel had clearly had a beverage or two (it was his birthday). And was chatty.

   “Well, if it isn’t my favorite bookkeeper!” he crowed as Quan approached. “I take it everything was in order?”

   Quan nodded and passed him the package. “Yep.”

   “And how are you? Everything cool?”

   More nodding. “Everything is definitely cool.”

   “Hey, speaking of ‘cool,’ peep my new papasan chair!” Martel ran his hands lovingly along the edge of the massive kente cloth seat.

   Quan smiled for real. It was odd seeing Martel so geeked about something so simple. “It’s dope, Tel.”

   “How’s your moms? She good?”

   Quan really wanted to go. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “She’s great!”

   “You sure you good?” And Martel’s expression shifted just the smallest bit. Like some of the joy leached out. “Seem like you in a hurry—”

   Which was when Brad burst into the room. Grill on his lower teeth gleaming, blond hair tied up in a funny-looking baby bun on top of his head. “Ey yo, Tel, twelve just rolled by.”

   Quan’s whole body went dry-ice cold. If the cops “rolled by,” there was a good chance they’d return. What with the music blasting and who knows how many people loitering around the house, Quan was sure they were in violation of some obscure ordinance no one would know existed until they were slapped with random-ass charges.

       He tried to keep his breathing under control. Since Dwight’s demise, Quan had been having these…spells. Where it would suddenly get real hard to take a breath and he’d be absolutely, positively, 140 percent sure horrible things were about to happen. Like the cops would bust in and snatch him up the way they’d taken Daddy all those years ago. They would pin Dwight’s murder on Quan and hit him with the death penalty without him even going to trial.

   His eyes darted around looking for the easiest escape.

   Martel’s eyes narrowed. “People started dispersing already?”

   “Yeah.” Brad rapid-fire nodded and his boy-bun bobbed. Quan almost laughed.

   Almost.

   “Good,” Martel said. “Tell a few of our guys to come inside, and you and Montrey find DeMarcus and post up by the truck. If they come back, chances are they’ll block the driveway.”

   Brad nodded—just once this time. “Cool.”

   “Vernell, you go with Bradley.”

   “Huh?” The word (is that even a word?) was out of Quan’s mouth before he could catch it.

   And if looks could truly shoot daggers, as Quan’s read in a few books, he woulda been a whole shish kabob.

       “We really need to eliminate that from your vocabulary, Vernell.”

   “Sorry, sorry,” Quan said, kicking into gear and rushing after Brad.

   With each step, the ball of dread that’d formed in Quan’s lower gut the moment he heard twelve (he legit had gas now) expanded and expanded, and by the time he and Brad reached Trey and a couple of the others at Martel’s Range Rover in the driveway, Quan could swear he had developed a headache, heartburn, the runs, and charley horses in both legs.

   Something bad was about to happen. He could tell.

   Brad delivered Martel’s message to Trey, who then dispatched a few other guys to clear the stragglers in the front yard. Some left, some headed to the back.

   Trey then popped the rear hatch of the truck and sat in the trunk space, letting his legs dangle over the edge. “Brad, take left flank. Quan, you got right. Mar, you post up next to me.”

   Mar. As in DeMarcus Johnson, Quan’s former classmate who’d gotten expelled in middle school because he couldn’t get a grip on his rage. He’d joined up with Black Jihad four months prior, and now Quan knew knew something bad was about to go down. Mar treated his pistol like he did clean underwear: never left home without it on him.

   Even now, Quan could see him shifting it around in his waistband. Something Quan knew now that he didn’t know in middle school: Mar’s dad had been shot and killed by a police officer during a traffic stop gone wrong…and he’d been in the car.

       “He TOLD dude he was carrying and had a license to do so. Heard that shit with my own ears, dawg. Then he said OUT LOUD that he was gonna get his wallet out his pocket. He SAID it. Cop pulled the trigger soon as Pops reached. I’ll NEVER forget that shit.”

   (That’s when Mar’s face would go granite-hard and he would absentmindedly feel for the butt of the piece that lived just inside the rim of his belted pants.)

        (That officer was indicted and tried, but acquitted.)

          (Because of the “anger problem” Mar displayed in school—

   after the incident—

   he was deemed not competent to testify.)

   Trey also checked for his weapon.

   Which made Quan’s ankle itch. Because Quan’s little .22 was tucked in his sock. He only had it because he’d had to make that damn pickup.

   “There they go,” Mar said as the nose of the cruiser appeared at the corner.

   “I told yo ass they was comin’ back,” Trey said to Brad. “Now gimme my money.”

       Brad reached into his pocket, and a slip of green was slapped into Trey’s palm. “Damn!” Brad said.

   The police cruiser hung a right and crept up the street toward them.

   “Y’all get in position,” Trey said.

   Quan’s heart beat faster. Almost like an internal drumroll that would lead to a mind-shattering BANG of cymbals.

   Just like Tel said, the cruiser pulled right across the edge of the driveway

              and stopped.

   (Which meant they were parked in the direction of oncoming traffic. Bold.)

   Then the doors opened. And two officers got out.

   And Quan’s consciousness detached from his body. Or something. All he knows is it suddenly felt like he was watching a movie:

THE END

   a short film

   Starring:

Officer Garrett Tison—White, salt-and-pepper gray hair, middle-aged and paunchy, looks a couple shakes past “ready to retire”

    Officer Tomás “Tommy” Castillo—looks white, early thirties, military buzz cut, buff and puffed up and ready to fight some crime