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a taste, to rap a lil’ while.
    â€œAnyway, Kanoon was talkin’ to a bunch o’ dudes at the bar, tellin’ them that he represented the New Breed, that he was one o’ them new niggers that didn’t have to give the white boy shit, didn’t have to play what they wanted him to play, didn’t have to pay them no rent, and wasn’t waitin’ ’round hopin’ that they would decide to recognize his black ass, he was doin’ his own thang, and them what didn’t like it could kiss his ass, the red, inner meat part of it.”
    â€œWell, I’ll say!” Bessie exclaimed as they strolled on, pride in her man bubbling her up like a pigeon. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. Was that stuff Miss Rabbit gave me to use, after he got out of the joint, really responsible for him being the way he is now? Or what?
    â€œWhy you lookin’ at me outta the corner of your eyes like that, woman?” he asked, a humorous glint in his own eyes.
    â€œâ€™Cause I love you, Fred Lee, that’s why.”
    He squeezed her waist, slimmer now by twenty pounds since she’d gone on a strict diet. “C’mon, we got a block to go, you used to be pretty fast, I’ll race you to the front steps.”
    Bessie bent over, snatched her shoes off and struck out, giggling like a teenager before Fred Lee realized she had put forty yards between them.
    He eased into a sprinter’s stride after a few yards, the years of doing wind sprints in the prison yard showing up in every smooth movement. Yeahhh suhh, it was sho’ ’nuff lookin’ good, he thought, as he breezed past Bessie with a grin. Woman lookin’ good, I’m lookin’ good, only thing wrong is this jive job I got gotta do better than this mail-clerk messenger bullshit gotta do somethin’ else.
    He dashed to the top step of the porch fronting their apartment building, barely breathing hard, and watched Bessie pause at the bottom, exhausted.
    â€œYou cheated, Fred Lee!” she accused him, mounting the steps.
    â€œHow in the hell could I cheat when you started out first?”
    â€œYou just did!” she responded with impeccable logic and eased past him, glowing from the run, feeling giddy.
    He followed her up the dimly lit stairs, carefully checking out the dimples in the back of her legs and her lately found, hourglass figure.
    Yeahhh, thangs was definitely lookin’ up.

Chapter 2
    Getting There
    Sweet Peter Deeder, now known by his given name, Peter Dawson, but still better known by the regulars as Sweet Peter Deeder, ex-pimp, ex-dope peddler, ex-gambling house owner, ex-conman, ex-ex … calmly shuffled his pages of notes, sitting onstage at St. Anastasia’s College for Girls. He stared up through the slitted Gothic windows at the clear, bright autumn sky. Tuesday weather, an ol’ con buddy once called it.
    He glanced down at the first row of multicolored, fleshy teenaged knees, catching sight of a thigh crossed over a thigh, the taut young meat straining under its short, pleated covering … and sighed. God! he asked himself, directing his eyes back up through the slits, God! what the hell am I doin’ up in here?
    Very simple, his mercilessly logical side spoke to him, you gittin’ over, motherfucker! gittin’ over like a fat rat!
    The assembly hall filled, the fresh, sparkling complexions of the school girls glowed, the pledge to the flag was listlessly recited and the Mother Superior introduced Mr. Peter Dawson, lecturer on Sinfulness.
    Sweet Peter D. limped over to the lectern, hip mod garments cloaking his slight paunch, a dazzling silk scarf covering the grillwork of scar tissue on the left side of his neck, a memo from Kwendi and company, from years ago, that and the ankle that never healed right.
    He stood as straight as a tin soldier for a few beats, taking the measure of his audience and allowing them the same liberty. For a moment, the