Knockos, whether Housing, City or County, were just like that, getting fixated on one corner, one building, one dealer, even though their arrest turf took in entire cities. It was known as the Knocko’s Prerogative.

“Pea-nut, Pea-nut, gimme some bottles, Pea-nut.” Big Chief towered over him, crowding him against the fence. “You ain’t no raiser, Pea-nut. Where them bottles?” Then he saw the bang on Peanut’s cheek. “You do something bad, Peanut?”

Big Chief turned slowly, looking over to Strike.

Strike stared at his own sneakers, taking a breath, recalling the exercise the speech therapist had taught him back in school: envision a scene that relaxes you, she’d said, and now Strike conjured up a picture of palm trees and ocean, literally a picture, since he had never seen a real palm tree.

“Strike,” Big Chief said, “Peanut do something bad?”

Strike took a swig of Yoo-Hoo, shrugged, said nothing. Futon ignored it all, bobbing his head to his Walkman, his fingers orange from Cheetos dust as he scraped the bottom of the bag.

Peanut did his gooney-bird dance: arms raised, elbows cocked, wrists curled. “C’mon, Big Chief, you know I ain’t do nothin’, ‘cause how come I ain’t runnin’ nowhere?”

Big Chief pulled at the front of Peanut’s pants, looked down into his crotch, growling, “Pea-nut, Pea-nut, lemme see ya pea-nuts.”

“Watch out it don’t bite you.” Peanut laughed. Big Chief laughed right back.

Strike heard the white guy going on to Crunch about how he just got engaged, how he did A.A., a hundred meetings in a hundred days, how his father was a fireman in Jersey City. Strike could see Crunch’s eyes going dull.

White people. Strike thought the Fury was OK but most of the others, in his experience, were for shit. Whenever they got grabbed, they got so scared they babbled; at least most of the boys around here knew to get stony stupid when the police came down. No matter what the knockos did to you, whatever they called you, all you had to do was weather it out, because the knockos couldn’t do shit if they couldn’t find nothing, so anybody who understood survival out here just hung tight and took the abuse until the knockos went away.

But if Big Chief or Thumper caught one of the boys dirty, someone like Peanut, then got him alone … well, everybody was out for himself. Peanut was being cool and funny with Strike sitting there, but Peanut went to Catholic pay school, his mother was a working woman and he was scared of her. If Peanut ever got caught, he might turn.

Big Chief had finished with Peanut, and now both of them were looking over at Strike. Big Chief knew Strike was clean, but here it came anyhow, just like always. Strike took a swig of Yoo-Hoo to brace himself.

Big Chief clomped over, six foot five, reddish-gray hair, bounce-lurching on the toes of his sneakers like a playground Frankenstein, wearing his Fury T-shirt—six wolves hanging out of a police car—growling, “Strike, Strike, Strike.” Thumper shoved Ahmed away and chimed in, “No, Big Chief, it be S-S-S-Strike S-S-S-Strike.”

Strike eased off the bench top, raising his arms, looking deadpan, solemn, enduring.

“You got bottles there, Strike?” Big Chief began finger-walking his front pockets, pulling out Strike’s money—ten dollars, never more—his house keys and the house keys for three other people who held his dope, his money.

“What are you, a janitor?” Big Chief jingled the keys, giving them to a baby in a stroller, and lazily scanned the curious and growing crowd around the benches.

Strike’s eyes went straight to Big Chief’s throat, then shifted over his shoulder, across the projects to where his mother lived with his brother, Victor. Strike imagined them looking out now, seeing this, drawing down the shade.

Thumper barked to a few eight-year-olds, “What’s up, yo, you got bottles?”

“I ain’t got no bottles,” said one little kid, rearing back in disdain.

“Who’s Mister Big?” Thumper leaned down, growling like Big Chief.

”This Mister Big,” the kid said, grabbing his own crotch, then running away.

“Open your mouth there, Strike.” Big Chief checked his teeth as if he was a horse, or a slave.

Strike, yawning wide, saw Rodney roll by in the beat-up rust-colored Cadillac that he’d bought from a pipehead for two hundred dollars cash and another hundred in bottles, kicking the guy in the ass on his way out the door. Rodney in his Jheri curls, his gold wraparound sunglasses and his Cadillac: an old-timer, thirty-five, maybe older.

Strike saw Rodney smirk in disgust, shake his head and raise a lazy hand off the seat back. But he kept moving; he never even slowed down.

“OK.” Big Chief looked right, left, then moved close. “Drop your drawers there, Strike. Dicky check.”

Strike hesitated as always, holding it in, weighing his options, finally unzipping and pulling down, some of the tenants in the crowd looking away and talking under their breath, some cursing out the Fury, some cursing out Strike.

“Drop your drawers, bend over, say ah-h-h,” Thumper said, getting in on it now.

Strike held his underwear band out so Big Chief could look in.

“Short and sweet there, Strike.” Big Chief frowned. “Let’s see under your balls, there. See what you got taped under your balls.”

“Strike’s balls,” Thumper drawled. “Strikes and balls, three and two, full count.”

Strike pulled up his scrotum, caught Peanut grinning on the sidewalk and then looking away quick when he saw Strike watching him, Strike thinking, Peanut’s a dead man.

Thumper peeked in. “Jesus, Strike, you got some bacon strips in there, brother. Where’s your hygiene?”

Strike bugged out: it was a damn lie. Nothing sickened Strike more than filth, any kind of filth. He was clean, cleaner than any of them. Losing it, Strike looked right into Thumper’s eyes, totally blowing his own play.

“W-w-w-what’s a m-m-m-matter, S-S-Strike? Y-y-you OK?”

Strike looked away, pulled up his pants, took his keys back from the baby. It was all Thumper’s show now, Big Chief moving off to look under the bench for bottles.

“How come you never smile, Strike? You’re clean, man.