A block of ice the size of a baseball nestled against the base of my spine and chilled sweat slid past my ear. I turned my head and my eyes passed over the grave and locked with Socia’s. He was completely still, his eyes looking directly at me as if I weren’t there. I said, “He doesn’t seem too friendly.”

Devin said, “You amputated the foot of his favorite lieutenant. I’d say he’s downright livid.”

“Enough to kill me?” It wasn’t easy, but I continued to meet that sullen gaze that told me I’d already ceased to exist.

“Oh, without a doubt,” Devin said.

That’s Devin for you. All heart.

“What’s my move?” I asked.

“A plane ticket to Tangiers would be my suggestion. He’ll still get to you but at least you could say you’d seen the world.” He scuffed the thick, stubby grass in front of him. “Word on the street, though, is he wants to talk with you first. Seems to think you got something he needs.” He raised his foot, used his hand to brush the grass off his shoe. “Now, what could that be, Patrick?”

I shrugged. Those eyes never left me. I’ve seen frozen ponds with more empathy. I said, “The man’s deluded.”

“No argument there. Hell of a good shot though. I hear he likes to pull the trigger a lot, hit his victims in superficial places. You know, take his time. Give them the head shot about a half hour after they start begging for it. A real humanitarian, our Socia.” He crossed his hands in front of him, cracked the knuckles. “So, why does he think you have something he needs, Patrick?”

Angie squeezed my hand and slipped her other hand under my arm. It felt warm and slightly bittersweet. She said, “Who’s the guy with the umbrella?”

Devin said, “I thought you two were detectives.”

Trench Coat had turned now, too. He was following Socia’s gaze, his eyes landing on me as well. I felt like a minnow in a shark tank.

Angie said, “No, Devin, we’re still studying. So, tell us  who’s the guy with the umbrella?”

He cracked his knuckles again, sighed with the ease of a man drinking a beer in a hammock. “That’s Jenna’s son.”

I said, “Jenna’s son.”

“Did I stutter? Jenna’s son. He runs the Angel Avengers.”

Angel Avenue runs through the heart of Black Dorchester. It’s not a place where you stop at red lights. Even in broad daylight.

“He got a hard-on for me, too?”

“Not as far as I know,” he said.

Angie said, “Is Socia his father?”

Devin looked at the two of them, then the two of us. He nodded. “But I think it was the mother who named him Roland.”

EIGHTEEN

“One angry child, our Roland,” Devin was saying.

I sipped some coffee. “He didn’t look much like a child to me,” I said.

Devin swallowed a hunk of doughnut, reached for his coffee. “He’s sixteen years old.”