Most street criminals want a cheap handgun, maybe a shotgun or an Uzi if they want more firepower. But Frankie’s talking about assault rifles. “Either somebody’s prepping for the zombie apocalypse,” I say, “or they want to start a war. This somebody have a name?”

Frankie shakes his head. “I don’t know who the buyer was, but Brandon Cargill wanted to broker the deal. Your uncle told him no, paid him ten grand not to do it. Mr. Lester didn’t make a big stink about it, just mentioned the payment and what it was for. I only remember it because you and I were just talking about Cargill. But that’s the only unusual thing I can think of recently.”

Unusual enough. Especially paying someone not to set up an illegal arms sale. I might have to pay a visit to Cargill after all. But I don’t see how that has anything to do with Tane Kamaka or where he might be. And before I do anything else, I have to go to the hospital. Maybe Uncle Gavin will answer all my questions.

And maybe the Falcons will win the Super Bowl.

I DON’T WANT to deal with lunchtime traffic, so I walk a block south to the Midtown MARTA station to take a train to Five Points in the heart of downtown. Essentially MARTA is a two-track system, one north–south line crossed by another running east–west, and while it’s nothing compared to the metro systems in New York or D.C. or Boston, it works, if only because everyone in this city drives a car, so traffic clogs the highways and streets like cholesterol clogs arteries. Sure, there’s the occasional angry homeless guy on the train, shouting about space lasers or microchip implants while the other passengers pretend they can’t see or hear him, and that’s uncomfortable for most people. But the trains tend to run on time and are relatively clean, and if your destination lies on one of the two lines and you don’t mind walking a bit, you could do a lot worse than MARTA. Plus it’s easy to follow people through MARTA stations without being seen, or to ditch people trying to follow you. I’ve done both in the past, so I almost don’t know what to do with myself when I pass through the turnstiles at Midtown and take the escalator down, just one more passenger.