Outside, a black Accord creeps by, music low. Keisha’s in the passenger seat, lashes fluttering, baby in the back. She used to be Tone’s. Now she’s with a dude who flips iPhones and wears fake Chrome Hearts. Tone don’t blink, but his jaw tightens.
Meech just came home. Eight years upstate. He’s quiet, posted near the payphone like it’s still 2005. He don’t talk much, but when he does, it’s scripture. “Don’t let the streets love you more than your moms,” he says, sipping a Nutcracker from a...