Page 61 of Omar

"Yeah."

"Who?"

Rashid told the story again. The bar, the two men, the story about Pops. Kadeem listened without interrupting, his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the counter. When Rashid got to the part about Pops being on his knees with a chain, Kadeem's face didn't move but something changed behind his eyes. A door closing. A lock turning.

"You got their names?" Kadeem asked.

"Rashid didn't get names," I said. "But he can ID both of them."

"That's not good enough." Kadeem looked at Rashid. "You can't keep doing this. Every time someone mentions Pops' name you swing first and think later. That's how you end up dead or locked up, and I ain't burying another Baptiste."

"They were laughing about him, Deem." Rashid's voice cracked. "They were sitting there in a bar laughing about our father being dragged around with a chain on his neck like he was an animal. What was I supposed to do, sit there and finish my drink?"

"Yes!" Kadeem stepped toward the table. "That's exactly what you do. You sit there, you finish your drink, you memorize their faces, and you bring the information to me. Then we handle it properly. We find out who they are, who their cousin is, how they know what they know, and we use that intelligence to find Pops. That's how this works. Getting into bar fights doesn't bring him home. Following the evidence does."

Rashid stared at his brother. The ice pack was dripping onto the table. His eyes were red.

"You expect me to just sit there," he said quietly.

"I expect you to be smart. I expect you to think like a Baptiste instead of acting like every hothead on the corner who catches feelings and throws punches." Kadeem's voice was firm but the strain underneath it was clear. He wasn't just angry. He was scared. Scared that Rashid was going to get himself killed chasing ghosts in bars while the real work was happening in spreadsheets and surveillance files. "You got a career, Rashid. You got music, you got talent, you got a future that doesn't involve any of this. Don't throw that away because some lowlife in a bar said something stupid."

The kitchen was quiet. The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs Ma was moving around, her footsteps crossing the floorboards. She didn't know we were here. She didn't need to know why.

"He's right," I told Rashid. "But so are you."

Both of them looked at me.

"Kadeem's right that you can't be fighting in bars. It's reckless and it puts you at risk." I sat down at the table across from Rashid. "But you're right that what they said matters. If someone saw Pops alive after he disappeared, even if it was in chains, that changes things. That means he wasn't killed the night they took him. He was held somewhere."

Kadeem didn't move.

"Devon can work with the description Rashid gave me," I continued. "We find the guy from the bar, we find his cousin, we find out where they saw Pops and when. That's a new thread. That's something we can pull."

"And Rashid?" Kadeem asked.

"Rashid goes back to the studio, keeps his head down, and stays away from bars on Franklin for a while." I looked at my little brother. "Can you do that?"

Rashid held the ice pack against his lip. His eyes were still red, his knuckles still raw, his leg still bouncing under the table. But he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I can do that."

Kadeem looked at me. I looked back. Between us, something unspoken passed that didn't need words. Pops on his knees. A chain around his neck. Alive, at least for a while after they took him. That changed everything we thought we knew about the disappearance. And somewhere in Brooklyn there was a man with a story about a cousin who'd seen it happen.

Devon would find him. Devon always found them.

"Go home," Kadeem told Rashid. "Get some sleep."

"I'll drive him," I said.

Rashid stood up from the table, wincing as he flexed his injured hand. Kadeem grabbed his shoulder on the way out, held it for a second, then let go. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. The grip said it. Be careful. Be smart. Be a Baptiste.

I drove Rashid to his apartment. He was quiet on the ride, his head against the window, the ice pack melting in his lap.

"You really think he's still alive?" Rashid asked as we pulled up to his building.

"I don't know. But I ain't stopping until I find out."

Rashid looked at me. Pops' eyes in a younger face. "Good," he said. "Cos neither am I."