“Don’t go chasing—” She grabbed it before it could go any further. She’d chased the waterfall and gotten battered for it. “Hey, Connie.” Howie. Not Jazz. Had she really expected Jazz to call? “Howie, have you—” “Not on the phone.” Under ordinary circumstances, she would have found Howie’s paranoia either adorable or annoying. But given the forces that had mobilized to look for Jazz, paranoia was probably the most meagerly acceptable level of caution. Billy could kill him. Sam could kill him. The police could shoot him “accidentally.” She knew all about the cops and their trigger fingers and their predilection for dealing with those who would attack their brethren. Her father had drummed such stories into her from a young age; more so into Whiz, who bore the burden of being a black boy about to grow into a black teen. If the police even look at you funny, Dad had said, you hit the ground and put your hands over your head.
