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talk about with Theo Knight.
    His father.
    And his mother.
    Isaac had thought he was so clever, the way he’d ventured into the maternal half of the forbidden territory. Theo knew he didn’t give a rat’s ass about him or his mother. Isaac brought her up only as a reminder that the cops hadn’t lifted a finger to catch the guy who’d slit her throat—yet another reason Theo shouldn’t turn to the police. Little did Isaac know that Theo had shipped off those demons to a place that Trina called the gulag of Theo’s mind.
    Theo’s Coconut Grove town house wasn’t in the ghetto, where he’d once lived with Tatum and their mother, but his little hovel wasn’t exactly the poster property for Miami’s real estate nirvana, either. In many ways,Theo was a man in transition.
    The porch light was out. He fumbled for his key in the darkness, but the blue-green glow of the television screen greeted him as he opened the front door.
    “Cy?” he said.“You up?”
    The old man rose from the E-Z chair. He was technically Theo’s great-uncle, and just about everyone called him “Uncle Cy,” but Theo just called him Cy.“’Course I’m up,” he said.
    “It’s three-thirty in the morning.”
    “When you’re my age, that’s almost lunchtime.”
    The old man chuckled, and Theo smiled, even though he’d 26
    James Grippando
    heard the joke many times before. His great-uncle had suffered a mild stroke over the summer. He was almost completely recovered, save for a slight loss of motion in his right leg and occasional short-term memory issues.The doctors thought it was better that he not live alone until he finished his rehab. He’d been staying with Theo for the past three months. It was the least Theo could do for the man who’d taught him to play the saxophone.
    “Sit with me for a minute,” said Cy as he cleared away the clutter of newspapers on the couch.
    Theo tried not to groan.“I’m really beat.”
    The old man shot him one of those lonely hound-dog looks.
    All his life, he’d been tall and thin, and he had a saxophone player’s stoop even when he wasn’t playing, as if his chin were glued to his sternum. He could cut to the soul when he looked at you, head down, through the top of those sad eyes.The man just didn’t play fair.
    “All right,” said Theo as he flopped onto the sofa.
    Cy lowered himself into the chair and flipped through the channels with the remote.“I wanted you to see this,” he said.
    “See what?”
    “It’s been all over the news.There was a prison break last night.
    A guy named Isaac Reems escaped. There it is,” he said, stopping on Action News.
    Isaac’s inmate photograph was on-screen staring back at Theo.
    The orange jumpsuit, the prison haircut, the mad-at-the-world scowl. For a fleeting moment, Theo saw himself—what he once was, the way he could have ended up.Thankfully, the anchorwom-an was at the end of her three-minute update.
    “Reems is assumed to be armed and dangerous,” she said to her television audience. “Anyone with information as to his where-abouts should immediately contact the Miami-Dade Department of Corrections.” A telephone number flashed on the screen, and then the newscast broke for a commercial.
    LAST CALL
    27
    Cy hit the mute button.“Isn’t that the boy you and your brother used to hang out with?”
    “Yeah, that’s him.”
    His uncle shook his head.“I knew he’d never amount to nothing.The other newsman said he’s been in and out of prison since he was seventeen.”
    “Almost as bad as Tatum,” said Theo.
    Almost. His older brother had grown up to be a contract killer.
    Cy said,“I just thank God one of y’all made something of hisself.”
    “Yup, that’s me, all right. Saint Theo.”
    “Don’t you go puttin’ yourself down. Ain’t no comparison between you and those two thugs.You should be proud of yourself.”
    “Must have been the music that turned me around,” said Theo.
    He meant that. In his prime, Cyrus Knight had