And then, remembering a documentary I saw last year about America’s first flight into space, I remember the astronaut’s prayer, supposedly uttered by Alan Shepard:

“And, dear God, please don’t let me screw up.”

CHAPTER 52

I exit the I-10 onto the western border of St. Roch: Elysian Fields Avenue.

Elysian. A synonym for “heaven.” Yeah, right. This place is far from heavenly.

Other parts of the city, just a few miles away, are packed with tourists and partygoers. Booze is bubbling. Business is booming. Life is good. Really good.

Here, not so much.

The streets are quiet. Eerie. Grim. Colorful but ramshackle shotgun houses line every block. Some lawns are trimmed. Most are choked by weeds and cast-off children’s toys, rusting bicycles, and car tires.

In front of one overgrown yard, I see two men lounging on a filthy leather sofa. They’re passing around a glass pipe in broad daylight.

I turn onto North Derbigny Street and see a bold, purple mural painted on a wooden fence proclaiming BAPTIZED WHEN THE LEVEES BROKE. In front of it, two homeless men are screaming at each other over a shopping cart full of soda cans.

Driving deeper into the neighborhood, I see clusters of people loitering on street corners. Playing dice. Staking territory. Dealing dope. More than a few are wearing yellow T-shirts, yellow shorts, yellow bandanas.

Franklin Avenue gang colors.

I tilt the brim of the Pelicans cap I’ve got on a little lower over my sunglasses, and sink down into my seat. I grip the steering wheel tighter with my left hand, resting my right on the Smith & Wesson tucked in the waist of my jeans.

I’m not looking for trouble. But I’m ready if trouble finds me.

I make a left onto Spain Street—and feel my chest tighten. This is where Larry Grant used to live. He shared a little gray bungalow down the road with his wife. His mom and grandmother still live in the light-blue house on the corner.

If one of them phoned Cunningham to complain about a disruptive late-night “police” raid nearby, the abandoned building the FBI hit must be close.

I slow down as I cruise along their block. I keep my eyes peeled for a home or garage roped off by yellow crime-scene tape.

Nothing.

I make a turn. Then another. I drive up and down a few other streets.

Still nothing.

Damn. Maybe coming here was both dangerous and a waste of time.

Then it dawns on me. If the FBI has been hitting a bunch of suspected addresses all over the city, they’ve been acting on tips and hunches, like a manhunt team going door to door to find an escaped fugitive. With their resources already stretched so thin, I bet they don’t have search warrants and aren’t processing every building they raid, sealing the scenes with tape.