He stood up violently and stormed over to the outer edge of the clearing. I let him simmer there, not wanting to get in his way.

I was trying to think about what that card meant. It was familiar, but not from some other card. Something else . . .

“What are you gonna do about this shit?” Christmas was standing over me. It was shocking that he could get so close without me noticing. This reminded me of Craig Kilian silently invading my office.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, climbing to my feet.

He stood there looking through me. Then he started to talk.

“I was in nearly every big blowup they had in World War II and Korea. And I was in ’Nam too, in the early days; major under Lieutenant General Jared ‘Quick’ Johnston, a white boy of the Alabama persuasion. I don’t think he liked colored people, as a matter of fact I know he didn’t. But I was the best and he knew he had to have the best with him. We threw our men on conflagration like dry twigs on white-hot flame. That’s what these motherfuckers did to your boy. Killed him but left him breathing and walking, a dead man in so much pain that it’ll live on past him.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the soldier meant, but I knew that as the restraints of military order eased in Black’s mind his anger grew. I didn’t see him that often, so this was the first time I had noticed the degree to which he was fraying around the edges.

Something about the distaste in the ex-soldier brought to mind a debauched club named the Dragon’s Eye.

“How’s Easter doin’?” I asked.

The question had the desired effect. His breathing evened out and an almost smile brushed his lips.

“She’s a good kid, Easy,” he said. “Fast and strong and smarter than any other kid in her grade—boy or girl. She only takes orders if they make sense to her. Better than me by about a mile.”

That card had struck a memory. It revealed something about Craig’s situation that I wasn’t about to share with my partner. Christmas had to work through his rage before he could go out on the playground with the other kids.

On the way back to the cars I took a plastic bag from my back pocket and collected maybe a dozen oranges.

13

13

John’s 1958 dark green Pontiac Bonneville was roomy and rolled along like a young man walking down the boulevard—steady but with a little swagger.

I reached the office a few minutes shy of 10:00.