Last Call

Theo glanced at the gun. "I got nothin' to do with that."

"I ain't blamin' you," he said, his voice calming. "But you know Isaac Reems. He always got hisself a plan B."

"Should have just robbed the 7-Eleven. That seems about your speed."

"You think you're the only one who's moved up in the world? The small time is way behind me. And even if it wasn't, I did my homework behind bars. A guy busts out of prison, the first thing cops watch is recent crime reports – stolen guns, cash, cars. Crimes like that leave a trail. I can't be leavin' no trails. So I asks myself: how can I get my hands on everything I need and be sure the cops don't find out about it? Then it hits me. I'll go see Theo Knight. I know he won't report it."

"You should have called a friend."

"Fugitives ain't got friends. You know how they caught the last dude who escaped from prison in Florida? His own momma turned him in."

"I don't want no part of this."

Isaac tipped the gun for emphasis. "It ain't exactly a choice."

"You think I'm still some teenage punk who wants into your gang?

"Uh-uh. You ain't no gangster, my main man, my brotha'. You ain't nothin' to me. You's just Theo Knight – Mr. Respectable Member of the Community. Which is exactly why you can't report this gun stolen. Or the money. You can't even call the cops and tell 'em I was here."

"You don't know me no more," said Theo.

All trace of a smile vanished. "I know this much, bro'. If I get caught, I'm go

Theo didn't respond.

Smugness was all over Isaac's face. "You know they'll believe me. You like to think you're a new man. You keep your nose clean now that you're outta prison, got yourself a fine tavern. But to the cops, you're still just a homeboy from the 'hood who's stupid enough to help his old buddy Isaac blow the joint and skip town."

Theo glared, but he didn't argue. Four years on death row for a crime he didn't commit made it tough to trust cops, and Isaac was smart enough to exploit that. "Just take what you want and go," said Theo.

He pointed with the gun. "The cash. All of it."

Theo scooped it up and started toward Isaac.

"Just leave it right there on the edge of the desk," said Isaac. "Then back your ass up against the wall."

Theo complied. Isaac stepped forward, took the cash, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Got more bullets?"

"Uh-uh," said Theo.

Isaac rifled through the other desk drawers, found the extra ammunition, and filled his other pocket. "You never was the liar your brother Tatum was. Now, where's the car keys?"

Theo pointed with a nod toward the hook on the wall.

Isaac said, "On second thought, I'll leave 'em right there."

"Suit yourself."

"Be nice to have wheels. And I'm pretty sure you ain't go

Theo watched as he started toward the door. Isaac opened it, then stopped in the open doorway. "For what it's worth, that was a shitty thing that happened to your momma. Even shittier that they never caught the guy who done it."

Theo didn't answer. He simply wanted to strangle him.

Isaac said, "See you around, Mr. Respectable."

He closed the door quietly, the sound of his footsteps fading into the night.

Chapter 2

Theo drove home alone and angry. Really angry. There were two things you just didn't talk about with Theo Knight.

His father.

And his mother.

Isaac had thought he was so clever, the way he'd ventured into the maternal half of the forbidden territory. Theo knew he didn't give a rat's ass about him or his mother. Isaac brought her up only as a reminder that the cops hadn't lifted a finger to catch the guy who'd slit her throat – yet another reason Theo shouldn't turn to the police. Little did Isaac know that Theo had shipped off those demons to a place that Trina called the gulag of Theo's mind.

Theo's Coconut Grove town house wasn't in the ghetto, where he'd once lived with Tatum and their mother, but his little hovel wasn't exactly the poster property for Miami 's real estate nirvana, either. In many ways, Theo was a man in transition.

The porch light was out. He fumbled for his key in the darkness, but the blue-green glow of the television screen greeted him as he opened the front door.

"Cy?" he said. "You up?"

The old man rose from the E-Z chair. He was technically Theo's great-uncle, and just about everyone called him "Uncle Cy," but Theo just called him Cy "Course I'm up," he said.

"It's three-thirty in the morning."

"When you're my age, that's almost lunchtime."

The old man chuckled, and Theo smiled, even though he'd heard the joke many times before. His great-uncle had suffered a mild stroke over the summer. He was almost completely recovered, save for a slight loss of motion in his right leg and occasional short-term memory issues. The doctors thought it was better that he not live alone until he finished his rehab. He'd been staying with Theo for the past three months. It was the least Theo could do for the man who'd taught him to play the saxophone.

"Sit with me for a minute," said Cy as he cleared away the clutter of newspapers on the couch.

Theo tried not to groan. "I'm really beat."

The old man shot him one of those lonely hound-dog looks. All his life, he'd been tall and thin, and he had a saxophone player's stoop even when he wasn't playing, as if his chin were glued to his sternum. He could cut to the soul when he looked at you, head down, through the top of those sad eyes. The man just didn't play fair.

"All right," said Theo as he flopped onto the sofa.

Cy lowered himself into the chair and flipped through the cha

"See what?"

"It's been all over the news. There was a prison break last night. A guy named Isaac Reems escaped. There it is," he said, stopping on Action News.

Isaac's inmate photograph was on-screen staring back at Theo. The orange jumpsuit, the prison haircut, the mad-at-the-world scowl. For a fleeting moment, Theo saw himself – what he once was, the way he could have ended up. Thankfully, the anchorwoman was at the end of her three-minute update.

"Reems is assumed to be armed and dangerous," she said to her television audience. "Anyone with information as to his whereabouts should immediately contact the Miami-Dade Department of Corrections." A telephone number flashed on the screen, and then the newscast broke for a commercial.

Cy hit the mute button. "Isn't that the boy you and your brother used to hang out with?"

"Yeah, that's him."

His uncle shook his head. "I knew he'd never amount to nothing. The other newsman said he's been in and out of prison since he was seventeen."

"Almost as bad as Tatum," said Theo.

Almost. His older brother had grown up to be a contract killer.

Cy said, "I just thank God one of y'all made something of his-self."

"Yup, that's me, all right. Saint Theo."

"Don't you go puttin' yourself down. Ain't no comparison between you and those two thugs. You should be proud of yourself."

"Must have been the music that turned me around," said Theo.

He meant that. In his prime, Cyrus Knight had been a nightclub star in old Overtown, Miami 's Harlem. He played all the best joints. At his peak, in the 1960s, he even did orchestra gigs for Sammy Davis Jr. and other stars in the big hotels on Miami Beach. When Theo was released from prison, Cy gave him his old saxophone, a classic Buescher 400. "You might be happy to be out of prison," his uncle had told him, "or you might be pissed off that they locked you up in the first place. It don't make no never mind. You just put all those feelings right here." Theo took the sax and the advice.