“Last night his mother said she’d see him at the rec center today. Figure it’s worth a shot.”

Caesar backs out of the driveway, and I glance at the house under construction and see workers in jeans and hard hats. Finn won’t be there anymore, but I still scan the windows. Then Caesar shifts into first and we drive down the street, leaving the construction site behind. The Frankenstein’s V-8 lets us know it could go much faster than it is right now.

“You and Frankie said Li’l Whizz is a hip-hop singer?” I ask.

Caesar nods, then says, “Hey, Siri, play ‘Alabaster’ by Li’l Whizz.”

There’s a bing and then through the car speakers a familiar and unmistakable male voice says, “Playing ‘Alabaster’ by Li’l Whizz.”

I stare at Caesar. “That was Samuel L. Jackson’s voice.”

Caesar keeps his eyes on the road as a hip-hop song starts playing, heavy beats and auto-tuned rapping.

“Caesar,” I say, “why is Siri talking in Sam Jackson’s voice?”

Caesar is quiet for a moment. “Frankie thought it would be cool,” he finally says.

“Sure, if you want Nick Fury playing your music and telling you when to take a left.”

“I hate it,” Caesar mutters.

“This song? Or the fact that Mace Windu is the car’s DJ?”

“I’m reprogramming it today.”

“‘Say “what” again, motherfucker!’”

Caesar glares at me. “If you quote another line from Pulp Fiction or anything else, you can get out and walk.”

I hold my hands up in a sign of peace and we drive another mile, listening to Li’l Whizz sing about how his lady is pure like alabaster.

“This is more like trap music,” I say. “All the snare drums and hi-hats.”

“Thanks for whitesplaining trap for me,” Caesar says. “Why do you care about finding this Tane so much?”

“Because my uncle wanted me to find him. And now I’ve lost him.”

Caesar shrugs. “He skipped out on you. That’s different.”

“Still need to find him. He’s involved with something big. The feds want him, and I’m hoping Peaches can tell me why.”

Caesar is quiet for a few moments. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You know I hunt down people for a living, right?”

His tone is flat and hard. “Not in the Bluff.”

We drive in silence past Chastain Park. Sunlight filters through the trees. On the golf course, a guy in an aqua polo shirt whacks a ball down the fairway and watches it sail into the morning sky. Another beautiful day in suburbia.