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Curtis took a ten-dollar bill from his wad of cash and showed it to Michael as he watched LeRoi coming closer.

“You know what a lookout is?” Curtis asked.

“For cops?” Michael said. He nodded. “Yeah. LeRoi pay me to say if I see one.”

“Right,” Curtis said, folding the ten-spot and handing it to the kid. “Go stand around the corner and let me know if any cop comes this way. I will come tell you when we’re finished here.”

Michael nodded once, took the money, and ran back to Jefferson Street.

Will Curtis turned in time to see LeRoi Cheatham come around the front of the minivan.

“What this shit about a check?” LeRoi said, looking at him hard.

Those are some seriously bloodshot eyes, Curtis thought.

Wonder what he’s on?

“You’re LeRoi Cheatham, right?”

“Damn right.” He nodded his head once.

So that’s where Michael got that nod from.

“Need to see some government ID. . . .”

“Shit, man,” he said, staring at Curtis with a look of disgust. Then he turned and spat behind him into the alley. He turned back and, as he began digging in the front pocket of his pants, said, “Just gimme my damn check.”

Curtis remembered what he had thought when Shauna Mays realized there was no money in the envelope. This time, as Curtis pulled the Glock from his waistband and aimed it at LeRoi’s chest, he said it.

“Sure. Here’s your reality check.”

Then he squeezed the trigger. Twice.

LeRoi fell backward into the alleyway.

Not thirty seconds after that, Michael Floyd came running back and called out, “Cop!”

After putting the warm pistol back under his shirt, Curtis walked to intercept him. He tore open the envelope and pulled out LeRoi’s Wanted sheet.

Michael looked around.

“Who got shot?” he asked. “Where LeRoi?”

“In the alley,” Curtis said. “But don’t go in there.”

Curtis put the Wanted sheet on the van window, then took his FedEx ballpoint pen and wrote “Lex Talionis, Third & Arch, Old City, $10,000 reward” on the back. He handed the sheet to Michael.

“Give this to your mother. And do what the cops say. Cops are good. They will get you back home. Okay?”

Michael Floyd, looking confused, took the sheet and stared at the mug shot of his Uncle LeRoi. After a moment, he pointed to the Last Known Address.

“My house,” he said.

“Right, Michael. That’s from when LeRoi lived there. That sheet says he did very bad things. And when you’re bad, you have to be punished.” Curtis paused to let that sink in.

“That what Mama said.” He was still looking at the sheet. “That why LeRoi live here.”

“You be good, Michael.”