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blob of scar tissue that ornamented his forehead. Legend had it, a rival drug dealer dusted on PCP—the man believed he was the reincarnation of Judas Iscariot—had been mad at Richard for stealing a jar of morphine tablets. The rumor of the theft had spread in the ghetto with the speed of a venereal disease. Everyone knew a showdown was coming and that it would be nasty.
    Exhibiting his customary disdain for no-count idiots, Richard had ignored the gossip and gone about his business. His mistake proved near fatal as his adversary cornered him in an alley one fine evening and shot him point-blank in the face with a .22 Colt derringer.
    A derringer is a modest gun, suitable for low-key situations such as a brawl at a party or a rumble in a nightclub. For assassinations, it isn’t adequate. The derringer’s bullet, the kind of ordnance that was sold under the counter at swap meets, blossomed out of the barrel and hit Richard Rood in the head. But it failed to penetrate his skull. The slug planted itself between his eyebrows, sticking out of his skin like avant-garde jewelry.
    Realizing he wasn’t dead, Richard underwent a severe mood swing. Not having any family, he felt alone. More alone than he’d ever been in his life. That had hurt more than the bullet. Being vain, he was enraged that his flawless complexion had been marred. He tugged at the slug with his fingers, but couldn’t get it out. Half-blinded fromthe blood running down his skin, he caressed the twisted piece of lead that was supposed to have killed him.
    His foe took off, never looking back.
    Because he was uneducated—a tenth-grade dropout from San Francisco’s Galileo High School—Richard wasn’t quite sure what the bullet in his noggin was supposed to mean. But from then on, his rep was sterling. No one ever dared to tangle with him.
    Aware of Richard Rood’s history, Stiv did an inventory on himself. He was young and didn’t have a pot to piss in. The only thing he had going was a penchant for recklessness that bordered on self-destruction.
    “Stiv, pay attention to me.”
    “Uh, what?”
    “You don’t know shit from Shinola. You are lower than a broke-dick dog.”
    Stiv’s reply was marinated in resignation. “You’re right.”
    Richard’s jheri curls were a black corona around his face. He flexed his biceps and heard the distinct sound of a jacket inseam giving way. The cheap stitching in his suit was busting apart. “Sure as hell,” he said. “You’ll have to pony up that money.”
    Stiv parried. “And if I don’t?”
    “Further trouble will befall your ass.”
    The two men were sitting face-to-face. Except that the top of Richard’s head was level with Stiv’s chin. All sounds in the space between them died away, building disquietude polluted with cynicism. The other customers in the café had prudently departed. The counter-person was busy washing dishes in the back. Stiv was of two minds. Part of him said to drop it and walk away. Deal with the problem later. Worry about the money some other time. That was the passive Stiv. Another side of him wanted to get mad and cause a scene. That was his aggressive streak talking. But he was afraid of Richard. Crossing the man would earn him a one-way excursion to the morgue with a death certificate tied to his foot and a burial in a pine box. Thinking rapidly, he pontificated, “All right, man, I’ve got a plan.”
    Richard Rood wasn’t impressed. “What is it?”
    Stiv leaned forward and gave the dealer his most sincere look. The illumination in the café reflected the nervous warmth in his eyes. “Give me another day.”
    “To do what?”
    “To get the money.”
    Rood smiled with heartfelt malevolence. His big white incisors were wet with spit. “And what if you don’t come up with it?”
    Stiv didn’t know what was worse, the diminutive Richard, or his own rash mouthing. “Don’t sweat it,” he said confidently. “I’ll get the cash.”
    Staring out the window at the