“You almost ran me over, you son of a bitch!” Budget’s eyes were wild, his pistol pulled. “Get out with your hands up. Now!”

“What did I do?” Bubba cried, mopping his face with his sleeve and sneezing.

“Get out!”

Bubba did. He was dazzled by sunlight. He was bloody and congested and filthy.

“Legs spread, hands against the car!” Budget meant it.

He frisked Bubba, finding nothing useful.

“What were you doing hiding on the floor?” Budget demanded as he holstered his pistol.

“Nothing,” Bubba lied.

“Bullshit!”

“Queen Bee’s gonna sting your butt,” Smudge was back. “Buzz is you ain’t touched down since we faced last. Where you truckin’, buddy?”

“You mind if I tell him I can’t talk right now?” Bubba asked Budget.

“Don’t you move!”

Budget peered through the window at a mat bunched on the floor. Bubba could tell by his reaction that he saw the revolver protruding from under the seat. Bubba froze, despair and terror rocking him like an earthquake while he watched, as if in slow motion, Budget snatch handcuffs off the back of his belt and snap them hard on Bubba’s wrists and tensely radio for a backup unit and a detective.

Brazil didn’t hear the call because his radio was still turned off, and Weed was staring at the statue, as if in a trance. Brazil’s legs were cramping. His expandable tactical baton and Mag-Lite were digging into his ribs. He was sweltering in his Progressive Technologies body armor, and his knees had seen too many years of hard tennis to take squatting or kneeling for very long.

He was about to make his move when Weed touched the statue. He traced the number on the uniform. He hung his head, his narrow shoulders shaking as he quietly sobbed.

Weed wiped his eyes on the sleeve on the back of his hand and was glad no one was around to see him cry. He never got weak like that, not even when his daddy smacked him or when Smoke was mean.

Weed didn’t feel anything when people forgot his birthday or other kids ignored him and didn’t invite him to parties or when basketball started up and he didn’t get to go anymore. The last time Weed Gardener remembered crying hard out of sadness was in August when Twister was jogging and got hit by a car that kept on going.

So why Weed was crying that way now made no sense to him, unless it was being alone in a graveyard and reminded of Twister, who was buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery on the north side of the city. It was Twister who had always encouraged Weed’s art, laughing and making a big fuss over Weed’s wild designs and cartoons, because Twister was famous and made good grades, but he couldn’t draw. He couldn’t match colors when he fixed up his dorm room or got dressed.

He used to tell Weed all the time that Weed was a fucking genius. Those were his exact words. Weed wanted Twister to admire what Weed had done to the statue. He wanted Twister to be flattered. He wanted Twister to beat up Smoke or maybe even kill him so Weed wouldn’t have to hide anymore, so he could go back to art class and practice with the band.