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simply as Smut. It was just after midnight on January 25, 1995, when Smut pulled his maroon Volkswagen Fox onto a side street around the corner from the Cortee’s.
    Smut climbed out of his car knowing Indira was waiting for him back at their apartment with a shrimp dinner she’d made for the two of them. But waiting for Smut was something Indira had gotten used to a long time ago, back to the fifth grade when they’d first met. Smut was twenty-three now, and Indira’s twenty-third birthday was coming up in a few weeks. They had two kids—their first, a girl, was already six.
    Smut was okay with Indira waiting because this was Tiny’s day—Tiny’s birthday. Smut and Tiny had been partying on and off all afternoon, and Smut had agreed to catch up with him at the Cortee’s. Tiny was John Evans, and the nickname didn’t really fit. He wasn’t so tall, an inch or so taller than Smut’s five-seven, but he was bull-necked and barrel-chested and topped two hundred pounds. Tiny’s hair was shoulder-length but he kept it braided. The two had become friends the summer before. They’d both grown up in Roxbury and Mattapan. They shared an interest in drug dealing, and were now associated with a street gang known as KOZ, an abbreviation for kilos and ounces. Tiny also had a terrible stutter, and Smut felt bad, even sorry, for him, because the stutter was frustrating to Tiny and sometimes made him seem stupid, and Smut knew that wasn’t true.
    Smut strode toward the front of the club. By his side walked Boogie-Down—or Ron Tinsley. Smut had given him a ride. Boogie-Down looked menacing—had this coldness about him when he raised his eyebrows and stared. He wore a gold-colored ball earring. Like Smut, Boogie-Down was twenty-three, and he had a criminal record for possessing drugs and firearms. He’d violated his probation and was lately trying to lie low by staying at his girlfriend’s apartment. He was also packing—a black 9mm, semiautomatic Heckler & Koch pistol. Days before, he’d gotten into a beef with a few guys in his girlfriend’s building, and so he was carrying for protection. With bouncers stationed at the club’s entrance, though, Boogie-Down left the gun in Smut’s car.
    Smut was familiar with the Cortee’s—just as he knew the area—but he didn’t much hang out there. He preferred the Rose Club or Conway’s in Mattapan. In fact, of all of Boston’s neighborhoods, Smut was most comfortable—and felt most safe—in Mattapan, the southernmost neighborhood before crossing into the suburban town of Milton. Mattapan was where his mother lived, and where Smut used to live with her.
    The Cortee’s was busy. People milled at the front door. Smut crossed the street. He was dressed in brown jeans made by Guess?, a gray top, and a bulky, brown leather jacket. He wore a gold-colored watch and a gold-colored necklace with a square plate. In his pockets he kept his car keys on a BMW chain, his cell phone, and $795 in cash.
    Smut was feeling good, or “nice,” as he liked to say. He’d been sipping E & J’s “Cask & Cream” during his day spent riding around with Tiny Evans. Smut liked the sweet taste of the creamy liqueur with its hint of butterscotch. He knew who’d be inside—plenty of girls, plenty of other dealers, plenty of guys from rival groups, or, as the police liked to label them, gangs named after a city street:like Castlegate, Humboldt, and so on. Hopefully, Tiny was already there.
    Smut flashed an ID at the door and went in.
     
    By definition, “smut” is a noun with several meanings—a particle of dirt; or a smudge made by soot, smoke, or dirt; or an obscenity. Negative connotations aside, the nickname was actually a term of endearment. One of his mother’s girlfriends had come up with it. He was five or six at the time, the kind of boy who could not sit still. He had a knack for turning the family’s apartment upside down. One holiday season he crawled under the Christmas tree and