Leaning against the glass, he scanned the crowd, studying each face with deadly seriousness. Back and forth, his eyes moved slowly for a full five minutes, straining, searching for that one particular face. His face. The face of death. As his eyes zeroed in on each male patron, his right hand came up and caressed the scar on his cheek. It was an involuntary action, perhaps even an unconscious one, something he did when he felt scared or threatened. The scar. He was three years old when his drunken father plowed the car into an oncoming truck on the icy Dan Ryan Expressway. The old man died instantly, crushed behind the steering wheel. Jefferson’s older brother, Rudy, suffered massive head injuries resulting in permanent brain damage. Jefferson, alone in the back seat, was thrown through the windshield, a jagged piece of glass tearing a chunk of flesh from his cheek. The wound required seventy-six stitches and left him with a deep L-shaped scar. “Has anyone been askin’ for me?” he asked one of the waitresses.
