The shoes in the center of the pavement were still warm inside, heat rising from the inner soles like steam on a sultry summer night. The seldom policed and deserted street was quiet with the profound secret hidden in its porous belly just moments earlier. No bustle or breeze to wake the recently dead, now lying just inches from his shoes; he was knocked out of them by a 357 magnum shot point blank into his thin and spindly chest. The circumference of the wound was the size of a finger going in and a fist coming out. Much later, the coroner would determine that the bullet had shredded the dealer's aorta, but for now the bleedout was swift and ominous. The shooter, a young man called Smack, lowered the knotted kerchief from his mouth and anxiously lifted the mask from his first kill. What he saw was enough to bring him to his knees in one graceless motion.

Steps away, the dead man's contact, Pollard, slid down the brick wall, pulling his knees into his chest. He watched the killer sink to the ground and stare at the gun he had just aimed and shot at his own brother, Ritchie.

Smack's raspy voice whispered through clenched teeth toward the dead body as he glanced to see who else might've seen the damage.

"Pollard, what the fuck, man? You tol' me he up and up, and here he come walkin' a blade! Shit, I cain't fuckin' believe you mothahfuckah. You set me up! This is my REAL Brutha, you fuck! Mama oldes' boy!"

Pollard knew that his story was crucial to his survival. He sat perfectly still and eyed the wild-eyed gang member with a sideways glance before he cautiously spoke.

"This what he wanted, Smack."

"What the fuck you talkin', bitch? An' speak up cuz I got nothin' to lose right now." He waved the gun at Pollard, finger still on the trigger. Taking a deep breath, Pollard slowly released his legs straight out in front of him and began to speak.

"Look. You don' know shit 'bout this cuz he didn't want you ta' know. Ritchie ain't been doin' good, man, that wastin' shit killin' him slow. He knew it ain't goin' be long 'fore he gone AND he knew you need a proof kill if you was to git in good wid' southside. He figgered to bite two at da' same time, see? He wanted you to git in good so you was taken care of an' this way he gotta choice 'bout how to die. No hospital, no medicine, no doc, no family cryin' while he fade to shit, man. You git it? I tol' him ta put on a mask and make a deal wid you. I figgered if he acted twitchy wid a blade, you'd see a opportunity to git it done. Everybody win in da end, dog. Now, you got some choices, man. You kin shoot me or we kin walk dat piece you holdin' an' fence it fer some groceries. People gotta eat after a funeral, man. Yo mom gon' be tore up if she lose TWO boys, see what I'm sayin'? You an' me? Or I gotta run? Choose, dog."

Smack squeezed his stinging eyes shut and let his memory land on his childhood and his brother. When he was careless or angry, Ritchie had always stepped in and saved him in a pinch. Smack knew that Ritchie was trying to save him now. The southside gang did not trust him to be a shooter and, if he was going to the top, he had to be. Killing his own brother for a bad buy would give him lasting credibility, and a leg up if they thought he was crazy. Smack eased back on the trigger and looked at Pollard squarely.

"Why you help him do this, man?"

Pollard leaned his body forward to get a closer look at the dead man and considered the next lie he was about to tell. He ran his long and nimble fingers across the top of his closely cropped hair and imagined Smack shooting him between the eyes at point-blank range if he knew the truth. Shaking slightly, he allowed himself a moment to think back to the last time he had been with Ritchie; remembered the smell of the now-dead man's sweat running onto his chest, eyes locked into his, as Ritchie pumped his naked body for hours. Months later, it was on this very street that Ritchie told Pollard he had AIDS and laughed when he boasted that he had probably killed at least a dozen faggots by now.

"An' you one a dem, buttfuck."

The now distant sound of Ritchie's voice still rang in his brain and, for a moment, Pollard thought about spilling the hidden truth all over Smack just so he could laugh his ass off. After all, he had just served up some kind of justice to the brother who had fucked him so good, the man he thought he loved until he learned the truth on this dead-end street. Instead, Pollard let the moment pass and steadied himself. He took in a deep breath and looked squarely at the shooter as he spoke carefully.

"We friends, man, what you 'spect me ta do?"

Smack stared at Pollard first, then his dead brother. Finally, he tucked the gun into the side pocket of his jeans and stood up, brushing his knees. Pollard stood as well and waited for a signal from the gunman.

"Come on, man, we gotta drop ta make. Southside gonna be callin' for detail and we need ta git home for mama hears the news."

Pollard jammed his hands into his pockets and looked toward the shoeless body of the dealer as he spoke.

"That fuckin' gun make a big pop, man, but no cops beatin' in. This a good street."

"Yeah," answered Smack as he tossed his arm around Pollard, "this a real good street."

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