I made my way to a patch of pearl-grey light thirty feet behind the trio and said, “You should ask yourselves two questions: One, which one of you am I gonna kill first? And two, why do giraffes still make me giggle? Frankly, I’d focus on the first question.”

Knowing I had the drop on them, they each turned just in time to see a figure emerge from the darkness behind me and into my patch of light.

“Who’s this OG niggah?” the thin Black man in the middle of the three said. He was wearing one of those god-awful oversized Pelle Pelle leather coats, low-rider jeans with his underwear puffed out above the belt and Timberland Radford boots. His cohorts were dressed equally ghetto fabulous.

“This is the man you claim to be working for,” I said. “Mr. ‘Duck’ Ducane.”

“It’s Duke Ducane, ya fuckin’ morons. Learn how to goddamn text,” Duke snarled. He turned to me. “You called me for this? Jesus, God in heaven, Snow. Just shoot two of these low-rent shit stains and sweat the third turd.”

“I called you to verify your relationship with these gentlemen,” I said.

“I ain’t got no relationship with these fools!” He pointed to the one with snake-slanted eyes and the one who looked as if he was about to pee his pants. “Them two are dumber than my hairy left nut, so put them down first.”

I was losing patience. “My better angels—who, by the way, are becoming fewer by the minute—tell me we are not gonna shoot anybody. You are walking outta here fully confident that all is well with the goddamn universe.”

“You do, of course, know these ashy gin-’n’-juice niggahs plan on killing you, right?” Duke said.

“Fuck dis shit,” the punk with the Uzi mumbled. “I’m gettin’ paid.”

Just as he was about to level the Uzi, Ducane and I unloaded four shots center mass into the punk.

“You were saying something about your ‘better angels’?” Ducane said as the dead man toppled over and hit the floor. “While we at it—”

“No,” I said. “I need these two for questioning.”

Duke said, “Your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then, turning his attention to the remaining Jersey boys, he said, “If’n y’all diseased-ghetto-rat mothafuckas do manage to eight ball this brotha, then know this: I will find you and kill you slowly and uniquely. Yo mommas will have to bury the sponge I use to clean up the last little bit of you. Make book on that, you jizz-monkey bastards.” Then Duke yelled, “Okay, boys! We out!”