Marcel smoothed out her khaki skirt. Her mother insisted on her wearing a white blouse rather than a polo shirt. The look helped her play her part. Dutiful daughter. Prize student. Unlikely hawk. A lollipop dangled from her lips. She monitored her business. Candy sales, mostly, money changing hands. She had five boys selling for her now. With Kutter making sure all funds managed to get where they were supposed to.

Enter Jaron.

His parents prepaid his lunch enough for a single meal per day, but Jaron was a big boy who enjoyed his share of snacks. Wanting to duplicate the success Marcel had with her entrepreneurial enterprises, he took the birthday money his grandmother had given him and invested it in candy. There was a specialty candy shop over in the Lafayette Square Mall and he bought candy not found in Dollar Tree. He charged more than any of Marcel’s sellers, but his was a premium product. Soon he found himself flush with cash, cutting into Marcel’s then-budding racket. Placing him firmly in her sights.

“How’s business?” Kutter eased up to him. He growled more than spoke, and his words had the ominous cast of storm clouds. The boy couldn’t even ask about the time without it sounding like a threat.

“I’m doing all right,” Jaron said.

“You know this is my yard, right?”

“It’s a big playground. There’s room for all of us.” Jaron smiled. Innocence was a dangerous thing. He genuinely believed that there was a big enough pie for everyone to get a slice and be happy.

He underestimated how much some people enjoyed pie.

Kutter knew how to use his size. He stepped into Jaron’s personal space, making sure the intrusion wasn’t lost on the bigger boy. Kutter was smart, an eager student of Marcel’s, and was careful not to lay a finger on Jaron. “It’s not as big as you might think. There’s only room for one candy dealer out here.”

“I . . .” Jaron began to backpedal, away from the weight of Kutter’s hot breath, but stopped when he bumped into RaShawn right behind him. “I get it. I’m through.”

“That’s not good enough.” Kutter patted his pockets. “Now see, my pockets feel kind of light. If only a good Samaritan could help me out.”

“How about . . .” Jaron tried to hide the stammer that crept into his voice. “I give you ten dollars? Would that help you out?”

“That it? That’s not very charitable.” It was Kutter’s turn to smile. It was ugly and jagged, like someone took a broken bottle and carved a slit where a mouth should be.

“How much would . . .” The question died on his lips. A wall of boys gathered, cutting them off from all prying eyes. He knew how this dance was meant to end. He began to dump out the sandwich bag he’d tucked his money into, but Kutter held his hand out. Jaron placed the entire bag into his greedy palms.