On the west side, the Yo-Yo was discovering that hooking up with an old flame could be quite the hot thrill. He hadn’t ridden a motorbike for at least twenty years, but whatever had kept him alive back then, he sure as hell hadn’t lost it. That bike had been a stolen one, just as this one was. Flicking the red beast from side to side, he weaved through some slow traffic on Warren. Power. Speed translated into distance almost instantly—Ducati power. A twist of the wrist and zip he was somewhere else. It made him smirk, which was pretty amazing even for him, considering what he was on his way to do.

He eased a right onto Junction Street. The road was already shimmering in the building heat of the morning. It was going to be another hot one, in more ways than one. Ahead, the lights on two intersections turned green. The road was clear. He could really open this baby up, just for a couple of seconds. It was tempting, but the Yo-Yo was following orders from the only guy he’d ever paid mind to, and that meant not drawing any attention—for the time being anyway.

He turned off Junction into the backstreets between Michigan Avenue and Grand Boulevard: Latin King territory, or so they claimed, seeing as of late some Black City Disciples had been mooching on down from Tireman Avenue and selling here. They didn’t come alone though, which was fine as far as the Yo-Yo was concerned, because he was looking for more than one of them.

Pulling up at a stop sign on Lovett, the Yo-Yo noticed a gray Impala curbside down the block. There was something about it. He carried on across the intersection but stopped behind a semi in an overgrown parking lot. He inched forward so he could watch between the rig and its trailer.

The Impala had its back to where Lovett dead-ended onto Michigan Avenue. There were three Black guys inside. One would be for dealing, two for lookout. But he had to be certain, so he waited. In case he was being watched, he took out his phone and made it look as if he were checking something. But his phone was off because phones logged movements.

He glanced up when an old Ford pickup clattered past him and made a right onto Lovett. It pulled up next to the Impala, driver’s side next to driver’s side. An arm came out of its cab. The guy in the front of the Impala reached out and took its offering. Deal done. Deal done and, for the Yo-Yo, target acquired. Next, he needed witnesses. As he waited, he took out a small piece of paper with a line of neat handwriting. He started mumbling to himself, mantra-like, as he practiced the words on the paper.

“Hijos . . . No, heejos. Yeah, that was it. Heejos. Heejos a Tireman . . .”