I cut through the center of the city and turned up Stark Street. Stark Street started out bad and got worse. The gang graffiti increased with each block. By the time we were at Third the buildings were solid slogans and signs. The sidewalks were spray-painted.

The street signs were spray-painted. First-floor windows were laced with iron security bars, and the bars and pawn shops were behind partially closed security gates.

I turned right at Third and drove one block to Comstock. Once off Stark there were fewer businesses and the streets narrowed.

Cars were parked on both sides of Comstock, reducing the road to barely two lanes. We passed a couple guys on a corner. They were young, dressed in baggy jeans and white T-shirts. Their arms and hands were tattooed. Their expressions were sullen and watchful.

'Not a lot of people out,' Lula said. 'Except for the two sentries we just passed.'

'It's the middle of the day. People are working.'

'Not in this neighborhood,' Lula said. 'Most of these people don't got jobs unless you count holding up liquor stores as a profession.'

I checked my rear-view mirror and saw one of the corner watchers put a cell phone to his ear.

'I'm getting a bad feeling,' I said.

That's because you're a minority here.'

'You mean being white?'

'No. I mean you're the only one for blocks not packin' a gun.'

I cruised past Fifth and started looking for a way out. I didn't want to go deeper into the 'hood. I wanted to get back to Stark and head for city center. I turned left onto Sixth and realized the truck in front of me wasn't moving. It was double-parked. No one at the wheel. I put the Buick into reverse and inched back. I was about to pull onto Comstock when a kid appeared from out of nowhere. He was in his late teens, and he looked like a clone of the guys on the corner.

He approached the car and rapped on the driver-side window. 'Hey,' he said.

'You might want to ignore him,' Lula said. 'And it might not be a bad idea to back up a little faster.'

'I'd like to back up faster, but there are a couple really nasty-looking guys at my bumper. If I back up I'll run over them.'

'So what's your point?'

'I know you,' the kid at my window said, his face inches from the glass. 'You're a fucking bounty hunter. You busted my uncle. You were with some Rambo guy. And you're the one fingered Red Devil.'

The car started to rock, and I realized the guys in the back were on the bumper. More faces pressed against the side windows.

'Step on the freaking gas,' Lula said. 'It don't matter if you run these clowns over. They've been run over lots of times. Look at them. Don't they look like they've been run over?'

'The guy at your window is saying something. What's he saying?'

'How would I know,' Lula said. 'It's gangsta talk shit. Something about kill the bitches. And now he's licking the glass. You're gonna have to Clorox this car if we ever get outa here.'

All right, I have three options. I can call Joe and have him send the police. That would be really embarrassing, and they might not get here in time to stop the bitch killing. The second choice is that I call Ranger. Equally embarrassing. And there might be bloodshed. Not mine, probably. Or I could run over a couple of these fine, upstanding young men.

'I'm getting real nervous about this,' Lula said. 'I think you might have made a bad decision to come into this neighborhood.'

I felt my blood pressure edge up a notch. 'This was your idea.'

'Well, it was a bad idea. I'm willing to admit that now.'

The Buick bounced around a little, and I could hear scraping, thumping sounds overhead. The idiots were jumping up and down on the roof.

'Your grandma's not gonna like it one bit if they scratch her car,' Lula said. This here's a classic.'

'Hey,' I yelled to the guy with his face pressed against my window. 'Back off from the car. It's a classic.'

'Classic this, bitch,' he said. And he pulled a gun out of his baggy pants and aimed it at me, the barrel about an inch from the window glass.

'Holy shit,' Lula said, eyes the size of duck eggs. 'Get me the fudge out of here.'

Option number three, I thought. And I mashed the accelerator down to the floorboard. The car sucked gas and roared back like a freight train. I didn't feel any bumps under the tires indicating that I'd run over a body. I took that as a good sign. I wheeled backward onto Comstock and screeched to a stop to change gears. Three guys flew off my roof. Two bounced off the right front fender onto the road. And one smacked onto the hood and grabbed hold of a windshield wiper.

'Don't stop now,' Lula yelled. 'And don't worry about the hood ornament. You'll lose him on the next turn.'

I rammed the car into drive and took off. I could hear a lot of noise behind me. A lunatic mix of yelling and gunfire and laughter.

The guy on the hood stared in at me, the pupils of his eyes dilated to the size of nickels.

'Think he got a pharmaceutical problem going,' Lula said.

I leaned on the horn, but the hood rider didn't blink.

'This here's like having an insect stuck on your windshield,' Lula said. 'A big ugly drugged-out praying mantis.'

I hauled the Buick around into a looping left turn onto Seventh, and the insect silently sailed off into space and crashed into a rusted-out van that was parked at the curb. I resumed breathing when I got to Stark.

'See, that worked out okay,' Lula said. 'Too bad we didn't find the devil guy, though.'

I gave her a sideways glance. 'Maybe you want to go back tomorrow and try again?'

'Maybe not tomorrow.'

I called Connie and told her we were on our way back to the office and asked her to run a search for me.

'If I give you some street boundaries can you check our files for guys in that neighborhood?' I asked her.

'I can search by zip code, and I can search by street. As long as the area isn't too big, I can do the by street search.'

I felt a responsibility to Eddie, and I thought chances were decent that the devil guy had a record. I'd declined to go through mug shots at police headquarters. I'd done that drill for other crimes and found it to be spectacularly unhelpful. After looking at a hundred head shots, I tended to forget the face of the perp. A search by neighborhood would produce a much smaller pool of potentials.

Connie was pulling files when Lula and I swung through the front door. 'I got seventeen hits for the boundaries you gave me,' she said. 'None are outstanding. It's not really our neighborhood.'

Lula looked through the pile of files on Connie's desk. 'Hey, this is the guy who was stuck to the hood of your car,' Lula said, holding a photo for me to see.

Connie grabbed a file and closed the drawer with her foot.

'That's Eugene Brown. He's been arrested so many times we have a personal relationship. Never been convicted of anything but possession.'

'Looks like we bonded him out for armed robbery and vehicular manslaughter,' Lula said.

'Eyewitnesses have a way of disappearing when Eugene's involved,' Connie said. 'And there's a lot of sworn testimony recanting. What was he doing on the hood of your car?'

'We were sort of cruising up Comstock Street…" Lula said.

Connie's eyes got wide. 'Where on Comstock?'

'Third.'

'Do you have a death wish? That's Slayerland.'

'We were just riding through,' Lula said.

'The two of you? In what car? The Buick? The powder blue-and-white Buick? You can't go past Third on Comstock in a powder blue car! That's Cut's colors. You don't go into gang territory with another gang color.'

'Well, yeah, but I didn't think it counted for cars. I just thought it counted for clothes. For, like, do-rags and shirts and shit,' Lula said. 'And it's hard to believe anybody'd take Cut serious with a color like powder blue. Powder blue is a sissy color.'