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There were a half-dozen young men picking up the hundred or more brown folding metal chairs scattered across the floor, many knocked onto their side, others folded flat. A crucifix crafted of rough-hewn timber was hanging at an odd angle on the wall.

To one side of the room, where the outlines of lettering that spelled BUFFET had been pried off, were black cubes like the ones outside, now burned, that had served as the stage for the rally. These were stacked to form two tiers, each level holding more of the brown folding chairs.

“That’s him,” Simpson said, looking toward an overweight black male in his mid-twenties sitting at the end of the first tier.

DiAndre Pringle had his tablet computer in his lap and was rapidly typing.

Payne grunted derisively when he saw Pringle was wearing a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt with WARNABROTHER on the front.

As Payne approached him, Pringle looked up, and his big brown eyes grew wide.

Pringle said, “You’re . . . you’re—”

“Apparently Public Enemy Number One,” Payne offered, “if Skinny Lenny is to be believed. I want to talk to him now. Where is he?”

“Who’s Skinny Lenny?”

“Oh, come on. Your boss, Cross. You know that his real name is Lenny Muggs.”

“Muggs? That’s shit. I don’t believe you.”

“And that’s pretty sharp language there for a deacon, DiAndre. Where did you say you attended seminary?”

Pringle did not reply.

Payne went on: “Yeah. I thought so. Listen, you don’t have to believe me. Just tell me where to find him.”

Pringle studied them, then after a moment announced, arrogantly, “In a safe place, because you’re trying to kill him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The shots fired from the crowd?” Pringle said. “They were clearly a planned assassination attempt on Reverend Cross.”

“Are you crazy? By who?”

“By you. The Man. He said he’s lucky to be alive—”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“Which is why Reverend Cross has gone i

nto hiding,” he said, evading the question.

Payne sighed audibly.

He exchanged glances with Harris and Simpson, both of whom had looks that said This is bullshit.

“Okay,” Payne said to Pringle. “Enough. We did not shoot Lenny—if he was even shot. And what about Tyrone Hooks?”

“You mean King Two-One-Five?”

“Okay, sure, King Two-One-Five. Don’t tell me—he was shot, too?”

Pringle met Payne’s eyes.

“Everybody saw it here, and on their TVs and all,” he said, pointing at his pad computer. “Got shot right after rapping ‘Beatin’ Down the Man’ and ‘Payne’s Gotta Go.’ That’s why he’s gone hiding, too. Go figure.”

“And I guess the two of them are now sitting in this safe house of theirs, tending to each others deadly wounds?”