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impotent rage. His fist was clenched rock hard at his side. He was so mad a tremor raced through his body. This bastard had balls, and Shannon was just the one to chop them off for him.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Shannon said in a nasty gutter tone.
    Lombardo released the chair. “Whatever you want it to be.”
    Campbell saw a flash of impending doom. Whether the two of them realized it or not they were both frustrated by the same statistics. But their being on opposite sides of the race card was making this territory shaky ground.
    He stepped between the two of them. “Enough.”
    â€œNaw. You ain’t seen enough yet. But you will.” Shannon looked Lombardo up and down. He stormed to the door and threw a last malicious look over his shoulder, before slamming the door shut behind him.
    Campbell threw his pad and pen to the floor. He kicked over one of the chairs in frustration. He’d heard about the shooting of the little girl on the police scanner before she’d arrived at Beth Israel Hospital. Her murder was sheer savagery at its worst. Another grandstand play in the Central Ward.
    Jasmine Davenport had been a beautiful little black girl with red ribbons all tied in her hair.
    Now all that would be seen of her was another hood memorial of balloons, candles, flowers, and ribbons tied on the street corner. The ghetto equivalent for remembering. Another innocent child lost in the jungle.
    It felt like these memorials were all over the Central Ward, and he was tired of seeing them. They were enough to make you want to lie down and weep.
    They represented loss and despair, but primarily they represented hope lost, life reduced to the ashes of a symbol. It was a constant reminder that they weren’t winning the war.
    And a war it was, although nobody took responsibility for declaring it. They were fighting an unseen enemy.
    It was tragic beyond endurance, and all it did was sow hatred in the hearts of more men, creating a disturbance like the one that had just transpired between Shannon Davenport and Lombardo.
    This was a ticking time bomb. Jasmine Davenport’s death would prove to be a catalyst to a pot that was already boiling over.
    Lombardo stared at the closed door that Shannon Davenport had left behind him, with open hatred beaming from his eyes. This man didn’t have any respect for authority, but Lombardo planned to help him learn it before this was all over.
    Shannon Davenport was skirting dangerous ground, very, very dangerous. He was skating on thin ice. And Lombardo knew that this ice couldn’t take another blow before it began to crack.

Chapter 5
    T hat night a gang of young men gathered in Rico’s basement. The room had an air of masculinity about it. The furnishings were bare, but the room contained an awesome stereo system. A big sixty-inch screen TV, a huge pool table along with a club-size pinball machine.
    The room was jammed. There was an air of coiled tenseness. All of the young men were strapped. They had the doors covered, as well as the windows. At the slightest movement, they would blow someone away without hesitation.
    Two of them were playing pool. One of them in particular stood out. His name was Eight Ball. He had a bald head, two gold earrings, and glasses. Tattoos were visible on his muscular biceps.
    His voice was a deep baritone. He sounded like a bass instrument whenever he spoke. He was Rico’s right-hand man. They were very close friends.
    T-Bone was also a trusted confidant of Rico’s. He was a likable kind of guy, built like a linebacker. He leaned forward and took a shot, sending a ball into a side pocket.
    In his excitement over the shot, he accidentally kicked over a library bag with books in it. Some of the books spilled onto the floor.
    Eight Ball sighed. “Yo, man, pick up the books.”
    T-Bone laughed while picking them up. “Chill, man. They ain’t gold.”
    Eight Ball gave him a strange look.