“I need to talk to Jamal. Where is he?”

“Shit, man. What are you, a cop?” the kid asked.

I glared at him and took a step forward. “Do I look like a cop?”

The kid’s eyes went wide. “Man, I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

“I’m Jamal’s lawyer, Dumbass. He’s going to be in deep shit if I don’t see him.”

The kid shrugged and stepped back toward the court. “Whatever. I don’t know no Jamal.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

He gave me a dirty look and spat on the ground. “Why?”

“So I can tell Jamal which little shit is to blame for him going to prison. I’m sure he’ll have his boys come talk to you.”

“Tyrone,” another one of the kids said as he walked over to the punk I was talking to. “Just tell him.”

Tyrone threw his hands up in the air and then pointed to the street on my right. “Fine. He’s over in that shitty bar around the corner like he always is.”

“If you’re lying—”

“He’s not,” the other kid said.

I stared at both of them for a long moment and slowly nodded. “He better not be.”

Before either of them could respond, I started off in the direction the kid had pointed.