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The soup kitchens in the Tenderloin were in full swing. Market Street’s sidewalks were thick with burglars, dope fiends, prostitutes, and panhandlers. Mama Celeste had to get going.

FOUR
    A DOVE SAT ON A TELEPHONE POLE at the corner of Van Ness and Market. It heard a mighty flapping of wings, looked to see what kind of bird was making the noise, and was attacked by a red-tailed hawk. The predator sank its talons in the dove’s neck and yanked it from the pole. Flying off with the stunned creature, the hawk zoomed over the New College law school campus on Fell Street.
    Richard Rood looked up at the red-tailed hawk and then at his fake Rolex watch. It was ten-thirty. On a scale of one to twenty, his day was starting out at zero. He had no food in his belly. No real money in his pockets. No weed to smoke. Leaning against a chain-link fence, he collected his thoughts. Stiv Wilkins had failed to come up with the money he owed. The white boy was a poltroon.
    On the upside of things, Stiv was going to have to pay a harsh penalty for his transgression. Sadistic by nature, Richard looked forward to the thrill of punishing him. Maybe he’d beat Stiv into a pulp. Or put out a lit cigarette in his face. Cutting off the punk’s ears with a knife sounded divine.
    If it hadn’t been for the black-and-white police cruiser that pulled up beside him, Richard Rood would’ve stood there all day thinking on how to torture Stiv Wilkins. The car announced itself by backfiring, emitting a report identical to the discharge of a large caliber handgun. Officer Mandelstam turned off the engine and decamped from the vehicle in slow motion, as if he were losing a battle with gravity.A stainless steel Ruger Security Six revolver in a lightweight canvas mesh holster was glued to his hip. A four-foot-long plastic nightstick with a whiplash handle was in his gloved fist.
    Richard Rood assessed the cop and was mellow. He wasn’t sweating it. He had no warrants out on him. No outstanding tickets to pay. No probation violations hanging over his head. He wasn’t going to get busted, not for no penny-ante shit. He wasn’t holding any drugs. No dime bags of indica. No bags of crank. No stolen credit cards. No guns or knives. He was clean, pure as driven snow. Which was wise because his rap sheet was sizable—a grand total of thirty-seven arrests that had resulted in two felony convictions and ten years of court-appointed probation. But staying clean also meant he wasn’t doing any trade. Which meant Richard had no cash.
    “All right,” Mandelstam burped, “what are you doing?”
    Richard folded his arms, haughtily stuck his nose in the air, and said, “Not a damn thing. I’m out here being all copacetic, enjoying the weather.”
    “That’ll be the day. Bring yourself and that fucking red suit you got on over here to the car.”
    The black dealer felt his temper go up a notch. “What for?”
    “Because you and I are going to have a tête-à-tête.” The policeman palmed the nightstick. “Empty out your pockets, shit for brains. Then put your hands on the hood where I can see them.”
    There was a time for resisting arrest and there was a time to submit to a frisk. There was a time for getting thrashed with a nightstick. There was a time for going to jail. And there was a time for calling your bondsman to raise bail. There was a time for everything under the sun. It occurred to Richard Rood this wasn’t a time to fuck around with Mandelstam. He removed his alligator-skin billfold from his pants, threw it on the ground, and deployed his hands on the black-and-white’s hood.
    “Spread your legs,” Mandelstam said. “I want to see daylight.”
    Rifling the dealer’s jacket pockets, the cop found a pencil, a pack of chewing gum, a ring of keys, an address book with nobody’s namein it, and the measly five dollars that Richard had to his name. With a cheerful grin—now he had cigarette money for the day—Mandelstam tucked the bill in his