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also pay my respects to the Destroyer.” He swept a low bow in front of Tracie’s feet, paying mock allegiance to her. He glared once at Michael, then at Dre.
    Rashod reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out his blunt. He put it to his mouth, searched for his lighter, lit it, and inhaled, blowing smoke at Tracie before turning on his heels and sauntering down the street in the direction of Sylvia’s Restaurant.
    Dre reached out a hand to snatch him by the collar for punking and disrespecting his mother. But Tracie put a restraining hand on Dre’s chest. She pulled her sunglasses over her eyes.
    She watched the back of Rashod as he glided down crowded Malcolm X Boulevard. Pain swelled in her chest as she watched the first child she had borne disappear into the crowded street. His hatred of her washed her onto the shores of failed motherhood and desolation.
    Here she stood on a street named after a man who thought they should rise. Instead the street was full of boys, girls, men, and women who were sinking. It was as if some unseen force were swallowing their very souls whole. Rashod, her very own child, was only one of them.
    Tracie shook her head at the thought. And that was only one of Harlem’s disparities. A cruel twist of fate was laughing at them for daring to dream, on streets that possessed the whispering souls of a Harlem Renaissance long past. They were living in shadows. Rashod was her shadow.
    The truth was, Randi wasn’t the only child she had lost. In reality, she had lost Rashod a long time ago, in both body and spirit. He was as dead to her as Randi. Tracie let out a silent, wordless sigh.
    Crack cocaine, the spiritless demon, had stolen him from her. The only difference was that she would not have to commit his body to the ground. No, he was a live ache that she would have to live with.
    He was one of the living dead.
    As Rashod glided through the streets that were like a second skin to him, his mother wasn’t the only person who watched him.
    The second pair of eyes not only watched, they absorbed him. Then they turned inward, swallowing the ghost of Rashod Burlingame whole.
    After all, he was only one of Tracie Burlingame’s black patches. Yes, she was a patchwork quilt, all right. She was full of black patches and hollowed-out places.

4
    G raced. That’s what those fools were. Graced. That would soon come to a crashing end.
    Screech.
    Those were the brakes, putting an end to things.
    The people in Harlem were graced because he had not yet struck the streets of Harlem. But now he would, because he had his orders. Spirit and flesh, flesh and spirit—for him it was a game of “romp and let’s play.” In reality, it was not something to be played with.
    He roamed the dark room. There was no need for light. He hated light and all things that were bright. He blew his nose, wadded up the tissue, and threw it in the growing pile, which was about three feet high in the room.
    He coughed up phlegm, spitting that into the wad of tissues also. He rubbed his bald head, which looked like a shiny, brown globe. Then he stretched his tall frame.
    Dirt caked the walls. The garbage in the room overflowed. He was pleased with himself for removing all the fresh meat from the refrigerator and setting it on the desk and tables in the room.
    He watched as maggots and roaches fought for position on the uncovered meat. Then he laughed.
    He was restless. He needed new spirit anyway. He was glad he was being dispatched to fresh territory. This mission was the most important of all. Harlem was considered the Black Mecca, the promised land. That made it important history-making grounds.
    He’d made some trial runs. There were some territorial-rights issues, but he had his orders from the only power that mattered.
    The one whose claim was already staked in Harlem was not moving fast enough. He was following a personal agenda. This was not personal; it was business.
    The business