“Give me two hundred, down payment. That’s so’s I know yo’ come back, and also yo’ don’t go to no other dealers. I’m Ginger. Yo’ come back to Ginger, yo’ don’t go no other dealer or yo’ lose your two hundred dollars, get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ’way, come back in forty minutes, ’kay? He come, I tells him, we go load up, yo’ pay up. Yo’ gits yo’ bags and yo’ gets yo’ scared little Peter Pan ass outta here.”

•   •   •

They drove around the block and parked. Juba slipped out. He slid through the overgrown yard of one house, across an alley mainly used by rats, and through another yard, until he had a good vantage on the dealer.

Nothing happened for a time—no traffic, no pedestrians, no whores, no cops—but then a black SUV pulled up, and the dealer man went around to him. Juba watched as they exchanged words through the window and, finally, some cash and a plastic bag with new, but short, replenishment.

Juba turned, raced back the way he came, and jumped into the car. He pulled down the street, screamed around the corner, hit the street where the drama had played out, and turned. A couple of blocks ahead, they could make out the taillights of what could only be the SUV.

They rolled through back streets, closing the distance. Juba was counting on poor security from the runner. He wouldn’t be alert. Under normal circumstances, Juba would have followed at an eight-block increment, pulled off, waited for the next run, then eight more blocks, finally arriving near morning. But time was short. The only thing he did was turn his lights off, keeping eye contact with the taillights ahead. They turned, he turned, and when he got to Seven Mile, he had to guess which way the supplier had turned because he hadn’t made it to the street in time to see. He guessed left, put his lights back on, and pressed pedal to floor. Ah, yes, there it was, a black Jeep Cherokee, well-polished, glittering in the more vivid light of Seven Mile. He fell into place six car lengths behind, careful to keep a regular interval, low profile, nothing aggressive or hostile.

At least one person was impressed.

“Wow,” said Jared, “you’re on this guy’s tail like glue.”

“Concentrate. Eyes on the car. When it turns, I’ll go straight ahead. It’s your job to see if it turns left or right the next street over or continues.”

Jared nodded, swallowing.

The game played itself out for another three-quarters of a mile. Then, helpfully, the driver ahead signaled, slowed, and took a right.

Jared saw, from the vantage point of his own car, the SUV slow down in the middle of the intersection, saw the taillight signal, saw the vehicle swing around.

“He went left,” he said.