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Danny, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to win this fight?”
    “Of course I do.”
    “Then why jeopardize your chances by letting Boff distract you?”
    “I didn’t intend to get involved.”
    “Right. Shit happens, huh?”
    “Maybe it’s something in my nature,” Cullen said. “I wasn’t especially proud of what Boff and I did to Julio’s killers. But we got justice for him. Something the cops couldn’t do, you know. I want to find Nino’s killer as a way of thanking you for all you’ve done for me.”
    “Even if it gets you killed?”
    “I’ll be with Boff. He wouldn’t let that happen.”
    McAlary guffawed. “Is that so? You told me Boff doesn’t carry a gun. How can an unarmed man so grossly out of shape protect you?”
    “He is armed.” Cullen tapped his forehead. “His mind is a weapon. You should’ve seen how he manipulated this Jamaican gang leader yesterday. I didn’t admit it to Boff, but what he turned up on just his first day has me a bit unnerved. It really does look like the drive-by was faked.”
    McAlary shook his head. “Danny, you’re a lost cause,” he said, and walked away.
     
    Boff was back behind the wheel when Cullen and Bellucci bounded down the stairs and climbed into the back seat of the Honda.
    “Just because I’m going with you,” Cullen said, “that doesn’t mean I’m committed to working with you. If you don’t turn up any real proof that I was the target, I’m outta here.”
    “No problem.”
    “Where’s the action, chief?” Bellucci asked.
    Boff put the car in gear. “I have a meet set up with the Bloods in Brower Park.”
    “Why a park?” Cullen asked.
    “Because in a park,” Bellucci told him, “the Bloods can see anything coming in all directions. I gather you didn’t grow up on the streets.”
    “ Las Vegas suburb.”
    “Unlike your dad,” the kid said. “Who made his bones in Hell’s Kitchen.”
    “Boff,” Cullen said, “tell me about the Bloods.”
    “Why?”
    “Like you told me last time with Julio’s killers, it’s important to know who we’re dealing with.”
    Boff glanced in his rearview mirror at Cullen. “The Bloods are New York City’s biggest and best-organized street gang. They’re known for killing their victims with razors and scalpels.”
    “Wouldn’t guns be easier?”
    “Yes. And they do use them, as you found out. But what strikes more fear in the hearts of your enemies—knowing they might get killed with a bullet or they be slashed to death?”
    “I see your point.”
    “Their income comes mostly from drug sales,” Boff continued. “They also peddle guns, commit robbery, and do credit card fraud. Most significantly, their enemies are the Cripps, the Latin Kings, and MS-Thirteen. Not the Jamaican Posse.”
    Bellucci chimed in. “They have some kind of code, right? I had a buddy who used to run with them.”
    “Their code,” Boff said, “has five central tenets: body, unity, love, lust, and soul. Sounds downright spiritual, doesn’t it?” He turned the steering wheel. “Ah, here we are.”
    He parked near Brower’s basketball court, where a five-on-five, full-court game was in progress. He stopped a minute to watch, thinking back to his days on the asphalt courts in the Bronx. Then he got out of the car and led Cullen and Bellucci past the courts to a grass oval surrounded by a walking track and clusters of trees. Two men in their early twenties and wearing baggy blue jeans, bright red T-shirts, and red do-rags were slouched on a bench in the middle of the oval.
    “The chunky guy with the nose ring is Devon,” Boff said in a low voice. “He’s the leader of the gang. The one with the red suspenders is his sissy. At least that’s the rumor.” He raised his voice slightly. “Devon was facing twenty years before I helped get him acquitted.”
    As they headed for the bench, Bellucci tapped Boff’s arm. “There’s five more leaning against those trees over there,” he said,