All week as I interviewed the faculty, I’d scoped the situation at Valley High, on the prowl for the resident lowlifes and drug dealers. Located three blocks south of a dying shopping center, the school occupied a hill overlooking town. The sprawling campus was on the seedy side. It hadn’t been completely renovated since the 1950s or ’60s; planners kept adding wings and ancillary structures willy-nilly throughout the decades. Kind of run down, kind of weary, and overcrowded. Budget shortfalls forced frequent school closures and the bulk of student consolidation fell to Valley High.

Lunch period bell signaled a stream of kids plodding to and from the shopping center. Same spot each day, a blue 2000 Camaro parked on the street near an exit with a clear view and a potential head start on converging security, not that security could be bothered. A bunch of kids visited the driver. He let the more adventuresome girls sit in the car with him as he doled out his wares. I bribed a passing sophomore to fill me in on the details. Confirmed that it was what I thought before rushing in half-cocked. My nerves were still raw from my visit to Vulture Bluff the previous afternoon.

I waited for a lull, then walked over to the Camaro’s owner as he sat on the hood, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Under thirty, lanky, and built for flight. Spendy wraparound shades NBA stars were promoting. Light insulated jacket, unbuttoned to display his gold chains and tats. Track pants and matching sneakers. Drug-money shoes. The car windows were rolled down and the stereo cranked an eclectic selection of hip-hop and gangster rap.

“Hey, Superfly. Got a minute?”

“No.” He dragged and then blew smoke in my face. “You a cop or somethin’?”

“Has life ever been so kind?”

“I don’t know you. Don’t wanna. Keep steppin’.”

I glanced around, sidled in nice and intimate, and showed him the pistol under my coat.

“Well, maybe you’ve got less time than that.”

“You crazy? You wouldn’t shoot me, homes—”

I rapped the top of Superfly’s dome with my brass knuckles. His shades fell off.

“Why would I shoot you when I can slap you around until my arm gets tired?”

Here’s something real: Don’t buy the jive about violence as a last resort because I’m better than that. No. Violence is only a last resort when it’s a last resort. Realistically, it’s often a first, second, or middle resort. The Superflys of the world speak the language fluently. Besides, hitting a jerk feels good. It has to feel good, or else I wouldn’t be able to stomach it. That dopamine rush I’d gotten addicted to in the Outfit was difficult to kick, so I weaned myself slowly.

He struggled to compose himself. Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. I left him, reached through the passenger window, and dug around in the glove box until I found some fast-food napkins. I gave him the napkins. Good call—blood trickled down his temple and dripped into his ear.