An El Producto cigar was jammed into the corner of his mouth as he sat on the third step of the stoop leading to the four-story Brownsville brownstone he had bought with a G.I. loan and a $2,000 inheritance from his grandmother. He put thirty years into the house, paying off one mortgage and picking up another as soon as a son or daughter was old enough to head for college. He spent his happiest days there, tending his backyard garden, enjoying quiet Sunday afternoons with his wife, Elma.

His saddest days were spent there too.

It was on the second floor, in the back bedroom, where Elma died on a warm June day in 1977, three years ago this month, the heart attack stripping her of the smile he loved, taking away the best friend he would ever have.

A year later, Eddie was in his finished bas.e.m.e.nt, shooting a quiet game of pool. Count Basie was on the turntable, and a cool drink was in his hand, when he got the call about his youngest son, Albert, shot dead on a tree-lined street in a Westchester town whose name he had never heard before.

Now he sat there, his days winding down, the cancer in his stomach spreading, content that he had done the best he could to raise his family. He looked across at his son Davis and wondered if Davis would someday feel the same. Eddie Winthrop had made his peace with the fact that his son had become a cop. He had never warmed to the idea, but he did like the way the neighborhood kids looked up to his boy.

"You want to go sit inside?" Dead-Eye asked his father, b.u.t.toning his baseball jacket.

"No," Eddie said. "I always liked the cold. You know that. It was your mother couldn't take it. Thirty years, every winter, had to hear her scream about how we would all be better off in North Carolina. Like it don't get cold there."

Dead-Eye reached into a paper bag by his left leg and pulled out two containers of hot chocolate. He handed one to his father.

"There any sugar in this?" Eddie asked.

"Ain't supposed to be."

"Says who?"

"Your doctor," Dead-Eye said.

"What's he know?" Eddie said.

"Your blood count, your sugar and cholesterol levels," Dead-Eye said. "Want me to go on?"

"Only if you want to bore me to sleep," Eddie said, sipping his hot chocolate. "Only doctor I know puts a dyin' man on a diet."

The two sat silently together, eyes on the pa.s.sing traffic, ears numbed by heavy blasts of music coming off car radios.

"Still like your job?" Eddie asked his son, eyes focused straight ahead.

"It fits me, Pop," Dead-Eye said. "Don't really know why. But it always has."

"I know," Eddie said. "I was the one wastin' breath tryin' to talk you out of doing it."

"Sorry you didn't?"

"Sometimes," Eddie said. "Whenever I hear about a white cop shooting another black kid. Everybody rushin' in, from mayor to priest, lookin' to clear the shooter's name. Then they all go on the TV and talk about how killing a black teenager who might have had a gun was justified."

"It's not always murder," Dead-Eye said.

"Most times it is," Eddie said, turning to face his son. "You think about it at all?"

"About what?" Dead-Eye asked. "Getting shot?"

"They put you in these places alone," Eddie said. "Then, if there's any trouble, they supposed to be there for you. Back you up. Make sure you don't die. Am I right so far?"

"Pretty much," Dead-Eye said.

"You ever wonder what if they don't show?" Eddie said. "What if they don't want to risk their own white a.s.s for some young black cop."

Dead-Eye sipped his hot chocolate and stayed quiet.

"It's a white man's badge," Eddie said. "Just because they let you have one don't change that."

"Times change, Pop," Dead-Eye said. "Old men like you forget that."

"But people never change, Davis," Eddie said, standing up and putting the spent cigar back in his mouth. "And that's something a young man like you should never forget. Not if you want to stay alive."

THE OFFER FROM the Spanish man in the funny hat made Magoo smile. the Spanish man in the funny hat made Magoo smile.

Magoo was only twenty-six years old, but he already had control of all the illegal gun shipments moving in and out of New York City. In six years, starting as a street runner in a Queens housing project, Magoo had worked his way up the criminal ladder with bullet speed, killing anyone in his way, often with the very guns he sold them. He had a street force of more than four hundred men and women, each reporting to district subs who, in turn, handed over orders and proceeds to borough commanders.

They then handed everything over to Magoo.

Magoo had been raised in a series of foster homes, where he learned to trust no one. He especially hated cops and openly bragged about the three he himself had brought down, one of them a young undercover he made crawl on his knees and sing the theme from Shaft Shaft before putting three bullets in the back of his head. before putting three bullets in the back of his head.

He knew very little about guns other than that they were in great demand and the right people on the wrong side of the law would pay any amount to get them. He hired only blacks and put a permanent price on loyalty. He stayed clear of drugs and drink, figuring his line of income was risky enough without supervising it through hazy eyes. He banked his cash past a laundering system that was run out of Toronto, flowed into Europe, and eased back into his private Manhattan account. Money meant everything to Magoo, and he made it his business to remove any threat to the cash flow.

Davis "Dead-Eye" Winthrop was such a threat.

DEAD-EYE WAS A different man at home, caring for his wife, doting on his son. different man at home, caring for his wife, doting on his son.

On many evenings before he hit the streets, Dead-Eye would make it a point to rock and cradle the four-month-old baby to sleep, then lay him in his crib, belly side down.

He watched him sleep, the baby's eyes twitching to a dream, his lips pursed, hands balled into fists. The boy, Eddie, had his mother's pleasant smile and his grandmother's sweet nature. Dead-Eye looked around the room, the stuffed toys bunched up on a corner window seat, soft dolls strewn around the floor. A warm room in a warm house. The house his father bought and paid for with hard work and now shared with his son and his family, keeping his own apartment two stories below.

It was well into the middle of the night.

Dead-Eye's wife, Grace, was sound asleep in the bedroom next door. Dead-Eye moved away from his son's crib and sat on the floor, legs folded, taking in the creaks and moans of the quiet house. All that he loved took breath between its walls. Memories, pleasant and sad, lived within the curves, nooks, and cracks of a house built five years before the start of the First World War. There was no violence in this house, only love.

In there, the price of a gun had no history and a life had meaning and respect. If death did arrive, it came by way of disease or destiny, not in the form of late-night bullets. If only Dead-Eye could seal the contents of this house and keep everyone inside it safe and warm.

But he knew that was a dream.

Reality was waiting for Dead-Eye on the streets of Brooklyn. He had a meeting with Magoo in less than two hours, and one of them would die.

Dead-Eye looked over at his son, asleep in this safe house of peace, and prayed that his guns would not betray him on this night.

DEAD-EYE KNEW IT was a setup the minute he stepped out of his car. was a setup the minute he stepped out of his car.

Four men stood around Magoo, each wearing a long leather coat, standard designer wear for the heavily armed.

The Spanish man was behind Magoo, nodding his head as Dead-Eye approached.

"h.e.l.lo, my friend," he said. "You are here."

"I'm here," Dead-Eye answered, looking over at Magoo.

"Now we can do business," the man told Dead-Eye. "Enough of this silly talk between us. We have to trust each other. You can't do business without trust. And I trust you. It's what I told Magoo. If you are a cop, then I am a cop. Then we are all cops."

"Chatty motherf.u.c.ker, ain't he?" Magoo said, smiling over at Dead-Eye.

"Too chatty to be a cop," Dead-Eye said.

"It's cold out here," Magoo said. "Let's take it upstairs. I think better when my teeth ain't chatterin'."

They walked around the corner in a group, past graffitistrewn walls, Magoo holding the middle, the Spanish man next to him, four leather coats filling out the huddle. Dead-Eye stayed in step behind Magoo.

"Lips here tells me you pretty good with a gun," Magoo said, looking over his shoulder. "Took out one of his boys before he could even blink. That true?"

"Pays to advertise," Dead-Eye said.

Magoo stopped, bringing the entire caravan to a halt. He turned to face Dead-Eye.

"I ain't too bad myself," Magoo said. "In case you was wonderin'."

"I wasn't," Dead-Eye said.

They stood before the entrance to a large housing complex. The benches around them were filled with sleeping homeless and users eyeing their next score. The few patches of gra.s.s at their feet were littered with bottles, used condoms, and split needles.

"What sort of piece you carryin'?" Magoo asked Dead-Eye.

"Askin' to buy?" Dead-Eye answered with a smile. "If you are, it's gonna cost you."

"I ain't askin'," Magoo said.

Dead-Eye heard one of the leather coats to his left click a chamber into a semi. He looked over at the Spanish man, who smiled back at him and shrugged his shoulders.

Dead-Eye unzipped his pea-green army surplus and reached into a side pocket. Magoo put a hand on top of his arm.

"Do it slow," Magoo said.

Dead-Eye nodded and pulled out a semiautomatic, showing it to Magoo.

"Release the clip," Magoo said, looking at Dead-Eye and not the gun.

"You ever do anything for yourself?" Dead-Eye asked, staring back, letting the silver cylinder slide from the gun to his cupped palm.

"Only what I need to," Magoo said, turning away.

THEY MOVED AS one, past a flurry of curious eyes. One of the leather coats held the heavy green door to unit number six open with one hand. The other stayed in his pocket, cradling a c.o.c.ked gun. one, past a flurry of curious eyes. One of the leather coats held the heavy green door to unit number six open with one hand. The other stayed in his pocket, cradling a c.o.c.ked gun.

Dead-Eye walked with his head bowed, mind racing. He had just made the biggest mistake an undercover could make-he had trusted a marked man. He had bet his life that the Spanish man feared him more than he did Magoo. Moving down the urine-stenched hallway of the project, Dead-Eye knew he had wagered wrong. Worse, he had told no one about his meeting, stubborn in his belief that he could bring Magoo down alone.

Now he had less than five minutes to figure out a way to save his life.

"You ever seen my place?" Magoo asked, the group stopped in front of the double doors of the elevator.

"Don't think so," Dead-Eye said, scanning the faces of the men he was up against.

Except for the Spanish man, they were heavily armed and, considering the odds, confident enough to take him out at close range. Dead-Eye was down to one gun, a 9-millimeter Hauser, jammed in the back of his jeans. It might be good enough to drop two, maybe three. But in a large s.p.a.ce, like Magoo's apartment, Dead-Eye had no chance. Too open, too vulnerable. It left him with only one choice, one place to make his move.

The elevator doors creaked open. The group got in and turned forward, one of the leather coats pressing the b.u.t.ton for the fourth floor. Squeezed into the four-by-five s.p.a.ce, they watched the doors close, then trained their eyes on the numbers above. The only light was a forty-watt bulb wrapped inside an iron basket.

Dead-Eye had inched his right arm out of his coat pocket and moved it to where his hand could feel the handle of the Hauser. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and was ready.

"These things are so f.u.c.kin' slow," the Spanish man said, watching the number move from one to two. "Be faster if we walked it."

"Healthier too," Dead-Eye said, a smile on his face now.

"What's the rush?" Magoo said, looking over at the Spanish man and giving him a wink. "We got ourselves all night."

The elevator eased its way slowly from two to three.

"I can't stay that long," Dead-Eye said. "I made some plans."

"Such as?" Magoo asked, still looking up at the numbers.

Dead-Eye came out with his Hauser, coat slipping off his shoulder, and put one into the back of Magoo's head. He then aimed up and shot out the forty-watt bulb, plunging the elevator into pitch darkness. Within a fraction of a second, all guns were drawn and fired, sparks setting off steady flashes of light. The noise was deafening, screams and shouts as loud as the steady fusilage.

It lasted less than thirty seconds.

More than sixty rounds were exchanged.

THE DOOR TO the fourth floor slowly slid open. An old woman pulling a shopping cart stood by the entrance, a look of horror across her face. The light from the hallway entered the elevator with a sudden jolt. Blood dripped down the sides of the walls. Magoo's body slumped forward and fell onto the hallway floor. Two of the leather coats were piled on top of one another in a corner of the elevator. The other two lay wounded on the ground. the fourth floor slowly slid open. An old woman pulling a shopping cart stood by the entrance, a look of horror across her face. The light from the hallway entered the elevator with a sudden jolt. Blood dripped down the sides of the walls. Magoo's body slumped forward and fell onto the hallway floor. Two of the leather coats were piled on top of one another in a corner of the elevator. The other two lay wounded on the ground.

The Spanish man had taken three in the chest, yet stood with his back against the elevator b.u.t.tons, a sly smile still on his face.

Dead-Eye was against the far wall of the elevator, facing the old woman. He was shot in the leg, chest, and both arms. His empty gun was still in his hand, blood pouring down his fingers. His face was splattered with other men's blood, thick enough to blur his vision. The pain was so intense, he could barely speak. He knew he couldn't move.

"My G.o.d!" the old woman said, shaking where she stood.

"Maybe you should wait for the next one," Dead-Eye said to her, trying to manage a smile.

"I'll call the police," she said through quivering lips.