Behind him one of the white men chuckled. “You hear? He axed him a question.”

“What kinda debts?”

“What kind you think?” Old Byron ground his head back into the glass and arched his back.

“You using, I take it.”

“Used my whole life. Opium, not heroin,” Old Byron said. “Who you think supplied Jessie Tell, fool?”

Luther stepped on Old Byron’s ankle and the old man gritted his teeth.

“Don’t say his name,” Luther said. “He was my friend. You ain’t.”

One of the white men called, “Hey! You going to kill him, shine, or what?”

Luther shook his head and heard the men groan and then scuttle off.

“Ain’t going to save you, though, Old Byron. You die, you die. Came all the way up here just to kill one of your own for that shit you put in you?” Luther spit on the glass pebbles.

Old Byron spit blood up at Luther, but all it did was land on his own shirt. “Never liked your ass, Luther. You think you special.”

Luther shrugged. “I am special. Any day aboveground that I ain’t you or I ain’t that?” He jerked his thumb behind him. “You’re goddamned fucking correct I’m special. Ain’t afraid of them anymore, ain’t afraid of you, ain’t afraid of this here color of my skin. Fuck all that forever.”

Old Byron rolled his eyes. “Like you even less.”

“Good.” Luther smiled. He crouched by Old Byron. “I ’spect you’ll live, old man. You get back on that train to Tulsa. Hear? And when you get off it, you go run your sad ass right to Smoke and tell him you missed me. Tell him it don’t matter none, though, because he ain’t going to have to look hard for me from now on.” Luther lowered his face until he was close enough to kiss Old Byron Jackson. “You tell Smoke I’m coming for him.” He slapped his good cheek once, hard. “I’m coming home, Old Byron. You tell Smoke that. You don’t?” Luther shrugged. “I’ll tell him myself.”

He stood and crossed the broken glass and stepped through the window. He never looked back at Old Byron. He worked his way through the feverish white folk and the screams and the rain and the storm of the hive and knew he was done with every lie he’d ever allowed himself to believe, every lie he’d ever lived, every lie.

Scollay Square. Court Square. The North End. Newspaper Row. Roxbury Crossing. Pope’s Hill. Codman and Eggleston Squares. The calls came in from all over the city, but nowhere more voluminously than in Thomas Coughlin’s precinct. South Boston was blowing up.

The mobs had emptied the stores along Broadway and thrown the goods to the street. Thomas couldn’t find even the strayest hair of logic in that—at least use what you looted. From the inner harbor to Andrew Square, from the Fort Point Channel to Farragut Road—not a single window in a single business stood intact. Hundreds of homes had suffered similar fates. East and West Broadway swelled with the worst of the populace, ten thousand strong and growing. Rapes—rapes, Thomas thought with clenched teeth—had occurred in public view, three on West Broadway, one on East Fourth, another at one of the piers along Northern Avenue.