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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

Twenty minutes later he was cruising around Nately Place, looking for a familiar face, as in familiar from an investigation file. When he saw one, a tattooed-up dealer in a wifebeater and a black Nike beanie, he pulled up and got out of his car. Instantly, the dealer wasn’t alone. His cronies and homies materialized out of the shadows. Apparently, Schaeffer’s car had seemed out of place.

“Hey, old man, you lose your way to the golf club?”

Schaeffer ignored them. He walked up to the dealer in the beanie.

“Mack Daddy Scrilla, I presume?”

Scrilla looked taken aback for a moment. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Captain Jonathan Schaeffer of the Detroit Police Department.”

Now Mack Scrilla really had nothing. He and his homies looked around to see if this strange guy in slacks, shirt, and sweater had backup.

“Nope, just me, I’m afraid. I want to speak to Pucky. You know where I can find him?”

“You know why we should give a fuck?”

“Yeah. I have something he wants very badly. And, if you’re lucky enough to be the guy who takes me to him, he’ll want to give you the motherfucker of all thank yous.”

Ten minutes later, Schaeffer was being lead down a dingy corridor. Scrilla knocked on the last door. Rap music thumped from within.

“Yeah?” came a voice.

“Niggas, it’s Mack Scrilla. Got someone here wants to see ya. He’s got something for ya.”

The door opened a few inches and a hand holding a forty-five emerged. The barrel touched Mack’s cheek.

“Who is he?”

Schaeffer decided to speed things along a little.

“He’s Jonathan Schaeffer. Until an hour ago I was captain at Precinct Thirteen of the Detroit Police Department. I’m now retired. I’m here alone and I’m unarmed.”

Moments later, Schaeffer faced half a dozen men, all of whom had rap sheets longer than his service record. He placed a USB stick on a messy coffee table. Pucky and his associates stared at it.

Pucky had to speak loudly over the music. “What is it?”

“Play it,” said Schaeffer.

Someone changed the source on the big TV, thereby cutting the music. The USB was plugged in and voices filled the room. The quality was poor, due to the recording having been made in a car, but the words could be heard plainly enough.