Freddy Bulls stands at Ninth and Haith before Breaks, a pool hall, weaving a quarter between long fingers. At a high-rise window, sundown cresting dirty Brownstones, an Irish kid named Tommy Lang eyes Freddy in the cross hairs of his scope. Ten blocks east, travelling 110 mph, Sup, a fresh Crip, races a red ’69 Impala toward the intersection. As Freddy’s bus slows, brakes hissing, a scrawny addict named Edgar Face asks for spare change. Freddy clutches his coin. An oil slick on the street shimmers a psychedelic dusk of violet and green as the bus door opens. Freddy boards.
"Classic"
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