I spot Duncan, bent over at the table. He sniffs, then jerks upward. Head thrown back, he rubs at the white powder on his nostrils. He shivers, then claps his hands. His gaze jerks around the room, finally landing on me.
    “Mr. Style!” he calls.
  I don’t know how you dress when you’re off duty, Detective, but to my white, suburban eye, Duncan’s the epitome of style. A short Afro with a goatee. His silk dress shirt is open one button, and a gold chain dangles around his neck. It matches that gold crown on his right incisor.
   He’s jittery as he stalks over to me with his hand extended. “Where’d you find them boots, huh? I want to buy me a set.”
    I rise and shake his hand. “I used to sell shoes at Hudson’s.”
    “Hudson’s?” He rubs his nostrils again. “I’ll bet those set you back some.”
    “I got a discount for working there.”
    “A working man.” Duncan glances back to the tallest guy at the table. “A future entrepreneur.”
 Chantelle steps in. “Leave him be, Duncan.”
   Duncan frowns. He glances at his wife, then at me.
  “Hey, you guys want a beer?” he asks. “Could we get our guests a beer, Chantelle?”
 Chantelle and Duncan eyeball each other for a moment. As Chantelle heads out to the kitchen, the two women at the table follow her.
  By now, I could use a beer; my throat stings from all the smoke. Still, I wasn’t complaining. I’m seventeen years old, down in the city at a coke house, having a beer with grown men. And they’re treating me like a grown man; you catch my drift? I mean, I even have a nickname — Mr. Style. Chantelle started calling me that and it stuck.
  Back at the table, Liam rockets upright. He rubs his nose and shakes his head. “Damn, Duncan. This is some Hi-Test stuff.”
  Duncan claps his hands. “That’s my style; Hi-Test.”
   Liam hands Duncan a stack of folded bills. Liam catches Garret’s eye and nods toward the small table. His fucking little brother. I guess looking back, I sound pretty hypocritical, huh? Yet, I remember feeling bummed out when Garrett went over to the table.
    Liam glances at me. “Step up, man.”
   “Thanks, man. Not my thing.”
  Duncan clamps a hand on my shoulder. “You a narc?”
   “No way, man." I pull away. “But if you have any weed around, I’ll be happy to toke up.”
   Duncan laughs and retracts his hand. “I’m only fucking with you, man. Liam says you’re cool, you’re cool.”
   I smile. “You have any more of that weed that Liam gave us, I’m in the market.”
   “Nah, I’m strictly powder.”
   Duncan glances back at the tall guy. He joins us. He’s dark-skinned and older, wearing the hell out of a camel, corduroy sports jacket, not unlike mine. No wonder Chantelle likes my style.
  “Mr. Style, here, is slinging a little weed,” Duncan tells him.
   “So, you a THC entrepreneur?” the tall guy asks.
   “Now and again. Weed; a little hashish.”
  “You ever get ripped off?” the tall guy asks.
   I snort. “Not in high school.”
  He steps back. “You still in high school? No offense, but I can’t never tell how old you people are.”
   “I’m in college now,” I tell him.”
  Duncan laughs. “You don’t look old enough to be in college, man.”
  “Yeah, I hear that a lot. But hey, I’m seventeen and in college. So, I’m not stupid.”
   “No, we ain’t sayin that,” the tall guy says.
   Duncan lifts the front of his shirt. He’s got a revolver in his waistband.
   Just like in the movies; except this isn't the fucking movies, this is real. I gape. As a guy, how did you feel when they handed you a pistol to wear, Detective?
 “You're young,” Duncan says, “older dudes might think they can take advantage of you.”
   The tall guy nods. “An easy rip-off.”
 Duncan lowers his shirt. “What you need is a deterrent.”
  “Heat,” the tall guy says.