[b][center]Part 2
Fast Break[/b][/center]

[b]Rucker Park
Harlem
4:30 PM[/b]

Remember earlier when I was talking about the history of Harlem? Rucker's one of those landmarks that's just as important as something like the Cotton Club or Alexander Hamilton's home. If Madison Square Garden is the basketball mecca of the world, then Rucker is the Sistine Chapel of playground hoops. Yes, I understand they're landmarks of two different religions but you get my point. Everyone from Jordan and Kobe to Magic and Bird have all passed through Rucker at one time or another. Back when the NBA and NCAA were tight-asses about the rules, Rucker was the one place a baller could let it all hang out and play his game. It's where Kareem perfected the skyhook, it's the launch pad where Dr. J first took flight. It's also where my snitch happens to spend his Sundays.

I rolled through the park that afternoon to find a good size crowd at the court. Sunday pick up games in the fall are usually devoid of any serious pro ballers, most of them are away getting ready for the upcoming season. At most you'll find a few pretty good college players and the usual pack of talented street ballers. I hung back in the crowd and watched the better part of the first half before slowly making my way over to DeJuan. He was too focused on the game to notice me come up from behind. He didn't even turn away from the court until I touched his elbow.

"What the fu--," he started before he saw me. "Cage..."

"You got money on the game?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"What do you think?"

I looked over DeJuan's head at the sight of a boy about 5'5 crossing over a man a foot taller than him and dashing towards the hoop for an easy lay up between two taller defenders.

"I hope you got the team the little guy's on."

The look on DeJaun's face answered that one for me. I started to guide him away from the court to the fence around the park. He shrugged out of my touch once we were at the fence. He leaned against the chain-link and stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Trying to mug tough is DeJuan's MO.

"What the hell you want with me?"

I pulled out my phone and showed DeJuan the picture of the calling card with the bloody crown on it.

"Recognize it?"

"No," he said too quickly.

"No wonder you always broke, boy. As bad a poker face as you got, you might as well give them your money."

DeJaun sucked his teeth and looked away, cursing under his breath. 

"A boy died last night, DeJuan. Not much older than yourself. He got killed by someone running with this crew."

"I don't give a shit. World's tough, shit happens."

The thing with DeJuan is that he sometimes needed a firm touch. I popped my knuckles loudly. The hardened skin made the pops sound like the loud ding of an aluminum baseball bat. DeJuan continued to look away, but his hostility had melted away.

"You getting your jaw shattered and having to eat through a straw is shit happening too."

"Look," DeJuan finally said. "All I know is I seen that logo on some tags up at the Wagner homes. All I heard is that it's territory for some new crew, and that's it."

"Alright," I said with a slow nod. "I find out that's a bunch of bullshit and I will be back. Believe that."

DeJuan scuttled off back to the crowd watching the game. I couldn't see what was happening, but the gasps and cheers told me someone had just dunked. I hoped it was the team DeJuan had bet against and started for the nearest bus stop headed downtown.

[b]Robert F. Wagner Houses
8:08 PM[/b]

I had my hood up while walking through the project courtyard. The projects here are a war zone, one of the few remaining bastions of the old ripping and running drug trade of the 90's. NYPD and the politicians promise every year to clean it up and clear the criminals out, but they never do. Lots of good people living here, lots of bad people too. Clockers on the stoop of every building, kids acting as runners carrying bags of product from the stash house to the dealers out front. I get a lot of hard stares, but nobody tries anything. They know I ain't 5-0. but they also know I ain't someone to take lightly. Halfway across the courtyard DeJuan's info paid off. A bright red tag on a wall, a crown with blood dripping off of it. Twenty yards away from the tag were a crew of five clockers sitting on a stoop, drinking malt liquor and bullshitting.

"You up?" one of the kids asked. He looked about all of thirteen. "You deaf, nigga? I said you up? What you want? Crack, coke, speed, weed?"

"Which one of y'all is running this crew?" I asked the pack of kids. 

"Yo, what the fuck you care for?" the same kid trying to sell asked. "You one of them civic pride having niggas? Want to do a citizens arrest, nigga?"

"Need to stop using that word. You call yourself and each other nigga, makes even easier for a white man to call you that."

The crew busted out laughing wildly. Laughing too loudly to be genuine. It seemed more exaggerated. False bravado like DeJuan's resistance at Rucker. They want to show me I'm a fool and that what I'm saying don't mean a damn thing to them. Finally, one of the older boys in the crew stepped forward. Maybe sixteen with a lazy eye and a Melo Knicks Jersey,. I had six inches on him, but he still eyed me up and laughed.

"Yo, listen to this Fredrick Douglass motherfucker over here. Spouting all that we shall overcome bullshit."

"I'm starting to lose my patience with you little--"

"Keep talking," the droopy eye kid said as he pulled a pistol from his waistband. "And you gonna lose your fucking life, nigga. Now, walk it off motherfucka before the Kings fuck you up."

I moved before he could even register it. The gun went off as I snatched it out of his hand. The bullet hit my forearm and bounced off the skin, burying itself somewhere in the brick of the apartment building. The crew of dealers looked on shocked as I crushed the gun with my bare hands and tossed it on shocked.

"Now, which one you little motherfuckers is gonna tell me about the Kings and who your boss is?"

"SCATTER!" droopy eye shouted.

The five kids all took off in different directions. I cursed under my breath and took off after the older kid in the Knicks jersey, hauling ass across the courtyard to catch him before he disappeared into the the projects.