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big yellow Buick station wagon and head west through Amagansett and East Hampton,

and just before the start of Bridgehampton’s two-block downtown, we turn right at the monument and go

north on 114.
    Stay on it long enough, the road leads to Sag Harbor, but along the way is the one enduring pocket of

poverty left in the Hamptons. It’s called Kings Highway but is often referred to as Black Hampton. One

minute you’re passing multimillion-dollar estates, the next minute shotgun shacks and trailer homes, old

rotting cars on blocks like in the Ozarks or Appalachia.
    Dante and his grandmother live off the dirt road leading to the town dump, and when we pull up to her

trailer, the woman who comes to the door has Dante’s cheekbones and lively brown eyes but none of his

height. In fact, she’s as compact and round as Dante is long and lean.
    “Don’t stand out there in the cold,” says Marie.
    The sitting room in the trailer is dark and a little grim. The only light comes from a single low-watt table

lamp, and the desperation in the close air is a palpable thing. It’s hard to imagine that both she and Dante

can live in here together.
    “We’re here to help,” says Clarence, “and the first step is getting Dante to turn himself in.”

“You’re here to help? How is that? Dante and Michael had nothing to do with these crimes,” says Marie.

“NOTHING! Dante is very aware of the chance he has been given, and earned, and what that could

mean.”

“I know that,” says Clarence, heartbreak in his voice too. “But the police don’t. The longer he stays out,

the worse it looks for him.”

“My grandson could have entered the NBA draft,” says Marie as if she hasn’t heard a word Clarence said.

“This home was filled with vultures waving cars and money under his nose, and Dante turned them all

down. Dante told me that when he does go pro, he wants to buy me a new house and a new car. I asked

him, What’s wrong with this house? What’s wrong with my car? I don’t need those things.”

Marie fixes us with a hard stare. Her tiny place is immaculate, and you can see the defiant effort to create

a semblance of middle-class stability. Barely visible on the wall directly behind Marie is a formal

photograph of Dante, his older brother, and his parents all dressed up outside the Baptist Memorial Church

in Riverhead. In the picture, Dante looks about ten, and I know from Clarence that soon after that picture

was taken, Dante’s father was stabbed to death on the street and his mother went to jail for the first time. I

also know that his brother, who many thought was almost as good a pro prospect as Dante, is serving a

two-year sentence in a corrections center upstate.
    “Marie,” says Clarence, “you got to get Dante to give Tom a call. Tom used to be a heck of a ballplayer.

Now he’s a heck of a lawyer. But he can’t help Dante if Dante won’t let him.”

Marie stares at me, her face not revealing a thing. “This neighborhood is full of folks who used to be great

ballplayers,” she says.

Beach Road

Chapter 22
    Loco

ON A SLEEPY midweek afternoon in the teeming metropolis that is downtown Montauk, Hugo Lindgren

sits at the counter of John’s Pancake House, killing time like only a cop can, turning a free cup of coffee

into a two-hour paid vacation.
    Since Lindgren’s all alone at the counter-the only “customer” in the whole place, in fact-I do the

sociable thing and take the stool beside him. Now, how many other drug dealers would make a gesture like

that.
    “Loco,” he mutters.
    As I sit, luminously green-eyed Erin Case comes over bearing a nearly empty pot of coffee.
    “Good afternoon, darlin’,” says Erin in her still-strong Ulster brogue. “What can I get you?”

“I’d love a double-vanilla latte decaf, if it’s not any trouble.”

“No trouble at all, darlin’. Got it right here,” says Erin, filling my mug with the dregs of the