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services. The police photographer was snapping still photographs. His photographs included Andre Burlingame, for they found it curious that he was personally photographing his own brother’s services.
    Off in the distance, Lonzo and Monica observed both the services and the visitors. One by one, young men went up to pay their respects to Tracie Burlingame.
    Sean Richardson, seventeen years old, was first up. “Randi was the greatest shooter in Harlem. I’m sorry, Miss Burlingame. I’m gonna miss him. He was my best friend.” Tracie nodded serenely.
    Next Jimmy “the Runner” Boyd, sixteen years old, made his way over to Tracie. “The NBA got cheated. Randi was poetry in motion.” He imitated the shot stance that had made Randi famous in Harlem. “Swish,” he said, “he was all that. He was my boy, Miss Burlingame.” Tracie touched his cheek softly, wiping away a tear before it could fall.
    Next came Little Rock; he, too, was sixteen years old. “My boy was a legend, Ms. Burlingame. This ain’t right. If we find out who did it . . .” He punched his hand with his fist.
    Tracie looked at him steadfastly. She lifted the veil off her face and kissed the boy’s cheek. Her eyes changed colors three times in fast succession, affecting the grief-stricken boy. He blinked, unsure what had even happened. He’d never seen anyone’s eyes change colors like that.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary, Little Rock. Randi will live through our memories of him.”
    Little Rock nodded. “Whatever you need . . .”
    â€œI know,” Tracie said.
    Renee Santiago hugged Tracie tightly. She looked at her pointedly. “Rashod could use some attention, Tracie.” She lowered her voice. “Soon.” She walked away. Tracie watched her make her way through the crowd.
    Souljah Boy pressed in close to Tracie. He placed something in her hand before walking away. Tracie opened her palm to see a page ripped from the Bible, the Twenty-third Psalm.
    That night, inside Tracie Burlingame’s brownstone on Riverside Drive, the wars were inwardly raging. Randi was dead, and the emotions of her remaining sons were running high. She would have to deal with them sooner or later.
    Michael was closeted in his room, incommunicado.
    Dre lay in the middle of his queen-sized bed, fully dressed, with his booted feet on the bed. He pondered the airline ticket in his hand. One wall of the room was full of photographs and poster shots.
    There were great ocean shots, sunsets, trees and mountains that Dre had taken during the hiatuses Tracie financed for him. There were lots of Harlem community scenes. The shots were bold, brash, and startling in their depiction of the streets of Harlem and its residents.
    He had captured the stark reality of the borough in an ethereal way, a way that made one pause for thought. Dre was a talented photographer. He had managed to capture the soul of the city and its people.
    Every photograph had a grainy, misty quality. The rest of the shots were mostly black-and-whites of family and friends.
    Camera equipment, video cameras, and leather satchel cases filled every available space, along with a ton of computer equipment and all its accessories. A miniature basketball court sat in one corner of the room.
    Dre continued to ponder the airline ticket. Under “Destination” were the words “Los Angeles.” Dre sighed. There was a knock on the bedroom door. He didn’t answer. The knock sounded again, more persistently this time.
    â€œCome in, Souljah,” Dre called knowing it was him. They were close, so they had it like that at times, each knowing when the other was around.
    Souljah Boy walked in. He closed the door behind him. Souljah Boy’s real name was Daniel Thomas Caldwell. His instincts were razor sharp, and his intuition was not normal. He detected grief, as well as something else, in the air. He couldn’t put