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father’s immense success, another yardstick that Desmond was afraid he’d never measure up to.
    â€œSo what do you think, Felicia?” Desmond asked his sister.
    â€œBangin’ like I thought it would be,” she said.
    â€œBangin’?” Mrs. Rucker asked. “I suppose you’re not looking to be a contestant on Wheel of Fortune. Or ever get yourself a decent job.”
    â€œCome on, Mommy,” Felicia said, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder. “That’s just the youth vernacular of the times. I’m sure if I went back to like ’67, ’68, when you and Daddy were young and carefree, I’d find you guys in bell-bottoms with big Afros, talking jive and doing God knows what.”
    Mrs. Rucker looked at her husband. “You remember that old Volkswagen with the broken passenger-side door?”
    Frank smiled. “I would always get in first and make you climb over me.”
    Mrs. Rucker’s eyes glazed over in remembrance. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “And you’d always cop a feel, too.” They broke off into a soul-shaking kiss, oblivious to the others at the table.
    â€œGet a room,” Felicia said, breaking them apart. She looked over toward Nora. “I apologize that you had to witness this.”
    Nora waved her hand. “I think it’s nice, your parents still in love after all these years. All the memories…”
    â€œWe weren’t in that broken Volkswagen for long though,” Mr. Rucker added, breaking from his wife’s warmth. “Our next car was a top-of-the-line Lincoln, been in luxury vehicles ever since.” He looked directly at Desmond as he said this.
    Desmond cleared his throat, nodded toward the jazz band. “What do you guys think of the live music?”
    Everyone turned to the ensemble on the platform at the back of the restaurant.
    â€œLoud and a bit off-tune,” Mr. Rucker said.
    â€œI might want to get up and dance to that loud, off-tune swing,” Barbara Rucker added, pinching her lips together seductively as she looked at her husband out of the corner of her eye.
    â€œNice,” Nora said. She looked over at Desmond. “Just the thought, dancing cheek to cheek to a slow, romantic song, is…nice.”

CHAPTER 3
    S lay pulled his BMW 745 up to the curb and idled. The burgundy exterior and gray leather interior held not one trace of dirt. He turned the volume up a decibel when his CD went to track six on Nas’s The Lost Tapes album. “Blaze A 50”—a banging morality tale about the downside of violence and greed oozed through Slay’s state-of-the-art stereo system. Slay nodded his head to the bass and prodigious drums. That Nas sure had a way with words.
    Slay looked in his rearview mirror and noticed a police patrol car approaching. He blinked hard to see if they were one of his own and smiled when he realized they were. The patrol car slowed as it passed and the officer gave Slay a slight head nod. Slay nodded in return.
    Waiting for this fool, Gabriel “Tuffy” Gibson, was working on Slay’s last nerve. Didn’t this young cat know making your boss wait set a bad impression? Slay tapped the steering wheel, thinking back on his sister’s behavior the night before. Off in her bedroom, whispering on the phone to someone—she wouldn’t tell who. He’d have to keep a closer watch on Cydney, not let so much time pass between visits. It was obvious she needed his guidance and direction, even though she was older. Up in that apartment acting like she didn’t know the streets. Acting like she didn’t grow up in the ’hood. Trying to block out any and everything that reminded her of how it was, coming up. Some things just wouldn’t go away that easily. He looked at himself in the rearview mirror.
    Slay thought about Theresa. He’d hit her with some of the shit he’d picked up reading through