“I think it was one of those teacher work days,” Weed lamely offered. “All I know is it was something, you know, something they was doing and we didn’t have to go. And my mama had to go to work. So I’m just hanging, you know?”

“It would only take me a minute to find out whether you’re telling me the truth,” said Brazil, who was distracted and upset that West had left him and 199 hadn’t shown up yet. “What I ought to do is haul your tiny butt back to Godwin and let them deal with you. But guess what? All they’d do is suspend you and that would only keep you out of school longer, right? So that’d just give you what you want, right?”

“I don’t want to be out of school!” Weed fired back. “I’d be there now if . . .”

“I thought you said it was a holiday,” Brazil said.

Weed was horrified that he’d just tripped over his lie and landed flat on his ass. There was no going back. His eyes danced around, looking for some place to run.

“All right, Weed,” Brazil said. “Let’s get down to business.”

“What kind of business?”

“It’s time for the truth,” Brazil said as Pigeon suddenly appeared, heading toward them, his gait listing and awkward.

“For one thing, your last name isn’t Jones, now is it?” said Brazil, who could not see Pigeon at his back.

“No,” Weed said.

“It’s Gardener, and your brother was Twister.”

Weed was speechless.

“Weed, tell me what the five’s for?”

“Huh?”

“The five tattooed on your finger. Let’s try that story again and see if it comes out better this time.”

Fear turned to panic. Weed’s mind went blank.

“I told you before it don’t mean nothing,” Weed said.

“I know it does,” Brazil persisted. “The Pikes. The gang taking credit for painting the statue, right?”

Weed was beginning to shake, Pigeon right behind them. Brazil probably smelled him and suddenly spun around, hand on his gun.

“Don’t go shooting me, I ain’t worth it,” Pigeon calmly said as he eyed the statue. “Now that’s special.”

“Who are you?” Brazil asked Pigeon, relaxing his shooting hand a little.

“Pigeon. I’ve seen you before,” Pigeon said. “Usually with some hot-looking lady cop. Can’t be on the street as much as I am and not see everybody eventually.”

Pigeon studied the statue again. Weed wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw admiration shining in Pigeon’s eyes. For an instant, Weed felt joy.

“So,” Brazil said, “either one of you got any idea who painted this statue to look like Weed’s brother?”

Weed tensed.

Pigeon waited.

“Well,” Weed said in a tight voice, “they was both eighteen. Maybe that’s why somebody did it.”

Pigeon squinted at the inscription on the statue’s base.

“What?” Brazil frowned.

“It says right there.” Weed pointed. “The man in the statue was eighteen just like Twister was.”

“You need to recheck your math,” Pigeon said to Weed. “Jeff Davis was eighty-one when he died.”