But after another minute or two, a kid wheeled his bike up the sidewalk, jumping off just as he got near Heriberto and letting it fall into the grass. The kid was wearing a too-big jacket, a strange choice given how warm it was outside.

The kid looked over each shoulder, uneasy, then sauntered over to Heriberto, a put-on cocksure bounce in his step. They talked for a second, and then the kid glanced at us. Chris started the car and backed out of the space we were in.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re making him nervous. I’m just moving, that’s all. Don’t stare at them.”

But I couldn’t help it. I waited for Chris to ease past them and then I turned in my seat, sinking down so I was peering out from under the headrest. Satisfied that we were gone, the two went back to talking. Then they shook hands and did one of those quick bro hugs, and if I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed it altogether. In the handshake, the kid had pressed something into Heriberto’s palm; in the hug Heriberto had shoved something into the kid’s jacket pocket.

“Oh, wow,” I said, turning to face forward again. “You were following a dealer. Heriberto is a dealer.”

WE WATCHED FROM a side street. Which wasn’t easy, given the distance. But we had no choice. We needed that distance.

Heriberto only stuck around for another half hour. But in that half hour, three more boys stopped and chatted with him. He pressed himself into the shadows every time. Once, when someone wearing the T-shirt of the community center uniform pulled into the parking lot, Heriberto quickly swiveled around and knelt in the grass, busily yanking at weeds.

He even waved at the guy in the community center T-shirt.

He was good.

Not good enough, apparently. But good.

I was starving, and just getting ready to suggest we leave, when Heriberto met with his last kid—one who approached from the passenger side of a silver Lincoln. That deal was short, with Heriberto casually leaning into the car, looking for all the world like someone who was just having a chat.

After the Lincoln pulled away, Heriberto tucked another cigarette into his mouth and walked to his car—a sweet yellow Mustang that shone like a mirror.

“Nice car for an equipment manager,” I mumbled.

Chris grunted in agreement. He turned his key in the ignition.

“Let me guess.”

“Yep,” he said, waiting for the Mustang and two other cars to pass, and then pulling out after him. “We’re going to follow him.”