I sat back on the couch in my apartment, thinking about the Hero once again, telling myself this was the last time. That ghost was gone. But I was lying and I knew it. The Hero woke me up at night. The Hero hid in waiting in shadows, in alleys, in the antiseptic hallways of my dreams, in the chamber of my gun. Just as in life, he’d do whatever he damn well pleased.

I stood and walked past the window to the phone. Outside, something sudden moved in the schoolyard across the street. The local punks had shown up to lurk in the shadows, sit in the deep stone window seats and smoke a little reefer, drink a few beers. Why not. When I was a local punk, I’d done the same thing. Me, Phil, Bubba, Angie, Waldo, Hale, everybody.

I dialed Richie’s direct line at the Trib, hoping to catch him working late as usual. His voice came across the line midway through the first ring. “City desk. Hold.” A Muzak version of The Magnificent Seven theme syruped its way over the line.

Then I got one of those what’s-wrong-with-this-picture answers without ever consciously having asked myself the question. There was no music coming from the schoolyard. No matter how much it announces their position, young punks don’t go anywhere without their boom boxes. It’s bad form.

I looked past the slit in the curtains down into the schoolyard. No more sudden movement. No movement at all. No glowing cigarette butts or clinking glass botües. I looked hard at the area where I’d seen it. The school was shaped like an E without the middle dash. The two end dashes jutted out a good six feet farther than the middle section. In those corners, deep shadows formed in the ninety-degree pockets. The movement had come from the pocket on my right.

I kept hoping for a match. In the movies, when someone’s following the detective, the idiot always lights a match so the hero can make him. Then I realized how ridiculously cloak-and-dagger this shit was. For all I knew, I’d seen a cat.

I kept watching anyway.

“City desk,” Richie said.

“You said that already.”

“Meestah Kenzie,” Richie said. “How goes it?”

“It goes well,” I said. “Hear you pissed off Mulkern again today.”

“Reason to go on living,” Richie said. “Hippos who masquerade as whales will be harpooned.”

I was willing to bet he had that written on a three-by-five card, taped above his desk. “What’s the most important bill coming to floor this session?”

“The most important bill ” he repeated, thinking about it. “No question the street terrorism bill.”

In the schoolyard, something moved. “The street terrorism bill?”

“Yeah. It labels all gang members ‘street terrorists,’ means you can throw them in jail simply because they’re gang members. In simplest terms ”

“Use small words so I’ll be sure to understand.”

“Of course. In simplest terms, gangs would be considered paramilitary groups with interests that are in direct conflict with those of the state. Treat them like an invading army. Anyone caught wearing colors, wearing Raiders baseball caps even, is committing treason. Goes straight to jail, no passing Go.”