Seconds later I hear the car door open and close softly behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I spot Victor Hodge walking slowly toward me. He stops at the end of the alley. I’m relieved and pissed at the same time—relieved it’s Victor as scheduled, pissed that he’s breaking the established eleven-thirty pickup rule.

“What’re you doing here?” I say. The night air is humid and thick, the parking lot silent save a few chirping crickets and the sounds of passing cars out on Michigan Avenue.

“Sorry,” Victor says. “I’m heading to Ann Arbor to party with some teammates. I need to make an early pickup.”

“Why didn’t you text me or call? I can’t just hand it to you right now.”

“I know that.” He shrugs. “But I knew you’d be out here and your brother said it was cool. I’ll just wait a few minutes after you go back in. Then I’ll grab it and go.”

“Whatever,” I say, frustrated. “Don’t make this a habit, and make sure Brenda doesn’t see you.”

“It’s cool,” he says, making a point of staying concealed in the dark alley. Anybody watching me right now would think I was some nut talking to himself.

Looking around, there isn’t a soul in sight, so I lift the case of Bud out of the cart and slide it behind the Dumpster, keeping my back to Michigan Avenue the entire time. Then, knowing that Victor is a big-time college athlete and former Blaine Memorial superstar, I decide to take a risk and join him in the alley, leaving the empty cart on the side of the Dumpster.

“What are you doing?” he asks, giving me a look. “I already paid you.”

“It’s not that. I have to ask you something.”

“Make it quick.” He’s tall and lean, all six feet whatever of him towering over me.

“Don’t say anything to my brother, but what if I wanted some D-Bol?”

He stares at me for a few moments, sizing me up in much the same way he did with Tank that night in the school field.

Then he says, “I’d say somebody your size could use some D-Bol.”

“Okay, so where do I get it?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Can you hook me up?”

“Me?” he says. “Hey, I’ve always been able to throw a baseball fast and accurate. I’ve never needed chemical assistance.”

“Victor, I’m not the Commissioner of Major League Baseball. I don’t care what you put or don’t put in your body. All I’m asking for here is a little direction.” I pause. “Most of us don’t have gifts like yours, so how do I get some D-Bol?”

There’s a silence, deep thinking going on behind Victor’s eyes.