Standing on a river bank, one can just numb to the rhythm of water's flow. Flow, alone, can evoke so many feelings, can have so many meanings and possibilities. But place, place feels fixed. I am here. I am in this place. I stand here but I see flow. I feel flow. Time. Time is flow. Was I always here? Was I ever there, the other side of the river? Did I come from there? Ivrüm, ancient word from the other side of the river, then the Euphrates. Terah, Abraham, Sarah, and Lot, a small family that crossed the river. No matter where here is, for them destiny began there.

Standing here, on this river bank, a simple farewell, Nino sends his regards, presaged blinding revelations to come later. Revelation is of whatever was. And if you don't know of what was? Pick up a shovel and start digging. History is a shovel. That's how it is done. Truth demands that dirt be moved. Digging begins at the, then, local NAACP.

"Are you fucking crazy? You sons of bitches are killing us! Can't you count? One, two or three, maybe three, new bodies a day - Meat and I can feed em." Jazz Man was referring to the well upholstered Baptist minister who ran the mission and was called Reverend Meat by the locals. On the receiving end of this tirade was Josephiah Morgan, an immaculately dressed, in a three piece pin striped grey suit, Shakespearian voiced, statuesque black man with dignified grey hair.

Jazz Man literally stomping as his neck bulged in rage, "You know what it takes to get volunteers for clothing and food, not to mention soap, toothpaste, and razors! You're God damn killing us! We're not a bottomless pit. Look at this sorry ass!" pulling a reluctant emaciated black man forward by the sleeve. "He has no skills! How do I get him work? That takes TRAINING" dragging that word out "TRAAAAAY_ NINGGG. Training takes time, and money and - jobs. Where in hell's bells do we get five new jobs a day? You're killing us," he seethed.

"Easy Jazz. You are the best thing we've got around here. We can't lose you. We need you. You keep the heart beat for all of us, we know that. You are good in it's purest sense." Josephiah Morgan knew to keep the praise going until his apparent adversary came down in blood pressure. First the salve.

"More than anybody, you show the way."

"But Joe," only Jazz Man called him that, "every day these guys get off the bus with that paper shirt box filled with cookies and maps. Cookies and MAPS! What the hell are you doing dragging these people away from their homes and bringing them here! One or two - OK - but five!"

"No. No. WE don't bring them here," as Jazz squinted anticipating Morgan's next analysis," God and fate bring them here. We just pack a lunch." As unconvinced eyes now rolled, Morgan pressed on, "You have to go to our holding house. See it yourself. I will take you personally. We get them dragged in, near death, beaten senseless. We keep as many there as we can, but survival, theirs, dictates we send some North. Not just here, all the cities. They're dying. They're hunted for not bowing or groveling. We need you. Don't close the railroad down." He was, of course, referring to the old salvation of the slave days. Jazz Man was softening, but Morgan pressed on, "I'll bet this man has children. What's your name, sir?"

"Lucius Fabian Williams," a very timid voice and then a prouder but weak "and I have a son. He boycotted, and they beat us all. I just tried to protect him. I held him, is all."

"Lucius? Can you do anything, besides farming?" A powerful voice which piped in from behind Morgan was another regular at the NAACP who sought to steer the debate away from crashing on the rocks to deeper waters.

"I kin cook." He blinked a few times, then rattled off weaseling, tree skinning and other stuff none of them ever heard of, as Lucius assumed a don't ask me look.

"Let's go Lucius," Jazz Man led him out as those who remained, smiled. Later Jazz Man presented Lucius to that old but still fearsome looking figure sitting in the back of his brother-in-law's restaurant. Chairs off the floor set on the table tops lent to an eery feel. The fixtures were elegant in a way that hinted age and wisdom. One could only wonder what these trappings could tell if they were alive. If, big if. One wonders what stories certain men could have told if they had been allowed to live. The decor and the ghosts had equal voice. But in that recess of darkness sat silence, itself. Nino.

"Nino, can the Scar use a cook?"

"Another one, eh compare? I'm a no think so. How about we teacha him to cook a so good, he cana be his owna boss ina his owna place ina - wherea you from?"

Lucius was terrified of this menacing man in the gloom. That was normal. But, it turned out, Lucius could cook. He did great things with Creole-like spices. The railroad mechanism kicked in. Lucius was housed in donated garage space, four blocks away, as he built up a little nest egg for his future 'Creole Italian Restaurant' - in Georgia!

Nino showed him the basics of Italian home cooking. "We no usa too mucha meat. Nice-a fish ana maka da soup ana da antipasto likea so..." Mr. Prio's cooks took Lucius to higher planes. But Lucius had his surprises, too. His version of Creole Italian stuffed peppers was becoming a big money maker at the restaurant. He was already earning his way. "I lika dis, Louie. Canna we freeza dis, Frankie?"

Frankie, was the expert on what would freeze well for sale in supermarkets. With a bit of adjustment in water content and a careful selection of the strain of peppers, the answer was yes. It was a big seller. Lucius got his nest egg and was nearly on his way. That's chaos. Many things are something until something else. You can't predict from within for you can become what is without. Lucius was nearly on his way, until Nails.

The Nalletto brothers were karate trained psychopaths who were not ostensibly on any payroll - just private citizens with mysterious income - and a special police frequency radio. Officially denied, they patrolled in an unmarked car waiting for coded police or Hayn calls. Some brothers. Orphaned, they were raised by the nut case Cesare Dumini, a punk crook who played the edge within the underworld and within the police, as informant and conspirator, as had their original father. He, too, was eliminated by one side or another, orphaning the Nalletto's twice over.

Now, old enough to fend for themselves they, too, were on the edge, as invisible police muscle. If blacks were seen loitering, or just walking where they ought not be, these two unofficial monsters would go and beat the offendees nearly and sometimes completely to death. The city fathers denied these "rumors concocted by outside trouble makers." The Nalletto's had no philosophy. They were vampires on the city payroll who just liked to damage people. They lived on blood. This job made it OK. Haven Lawn, the pristine suburb two towns away lodged a formal complaint about the alleged Nails brothers dropping battered bodies in their parks. One of those bodies, last seen walking to his garage home, was Lucius, dead.

Prio's long-sighted wisdom taught that power, in concentration, was dangerous and not to be allowed. Evil was simply power without containment, growth without check, cancer, shapeless, ever expansile and devouring. He regarded the pool as the real enemy. They will circle and come in for the kill when their power allows. Criminal charges would be easy to find, or concoct, God knows. They stalk in law. The blood, the family's blood, would be let into their waters. The danger was not the other families, as Prio getting older repeated more and more, "Nino, don't let the pool rise."

With the family muscle aging and THE connection, as it was called, long severed - though peacefully and fully honored - the pool's water WAS rising, dangerously. It was Jazz Man's work with the kids in the projects that only, surprisingly, late, caught Prio's attention. Jazz Man spent encountered a gang of very tough young boys who carved an exotic Greek letter into their chests as their symbol. They called themselves the Omega. Despite the ritual and symbolism, they were little else than teenaged thugs who beat and robbed. He had a talk with them.

"You can be just another gang of bullies. Lord knows there's never enough bullies. But did you ever wonder why there is no justice?" the members did the usual whitey bashing tirades, "No!" he hollered, "There is no justice because YOU don't care!" Jazz Man nearly got beaten by these kids in their incensed response, but he pushed them more, "No. You kids bitch and moan and blame and scold but you don't CARE. I CARE. I'm HERE! CARING! CARING IS SOMETHING YOU DO, not what you say. Tell me, any of you, what justice have you asserted, performed, demanded, with your own sweat and blood? Carving your skin is easy. Standing up for justice, making justice, is for REAL MEN."

There is something to be said about the age of men of chivalry and dragon slayers. It wasn't so much the era that was immature but a time when life was short. Adolescents were the men. It wasn't damsel saving brought on by a wave of new thinking or revelation, it was an age of adolescents in charge. How old were knights, anyway? The only change has been in a shift to the dominance of older brains less driven by testosterone but alas, more by greed, possession, and kingdom. Things not deeds, nor even style, let alone class.

These testosterone pumped adolescent boys nearly had hard-ons from this lecture. Was he talking about the future? Was there one? Them, dragon slayers? Them, knights saving damsels in distress? Them, men of justice? This was perfect. It gave meaning to lives that they didn't know they had. Jazz Man gave them the future. Prio shaped it with structure and organization. He gave them money. He gave them Nino.

Nino taught them power, power derived from organizational size and long reach, size derived from networking common causes, power from consistency and reliability, reliability from form and structure, power from speed, speed from surprise and invisibility, and all these from planning and study, study of the enemy, identifying the enemy, thinking his thoughts first. Arithmetic! You don't know when things don't add up unless you constantly keep a tally. Inventory.

It isn't what's wrong with your enemy that you must fear, but what is right. Know his strengths. Feel them. Internalize them. Destroy them. In Nino's world, there are no adversaries, just men and the dead. Enemy is just a short way of saying soon to be dead.

The enemy included, anyone who asks for your trust, anyone who would have you define justice, anyone who gains from your loss or who might gain from a weakness, all, who seek signatures over your word, all who cross the lines, many who might cross a line, any who show curious or spontaneous interest in you.

Teachings in army building included, desperate injustice righted is a prepayment on loyalty, men needy of justice create a large and dangerous army, any who can beat you must die before they know they can beat you, intelligence is important but preplanning and speed is better than intelligence, braggarts on either side must die.

Thus ran so many of the aphorism's of this Socrates as retaught by Frank Aver, his Plato. Frank learned to identify enemies before they themselves knew that they were enemies. Frank learned to identify allies before they were even acquaintances. If you taste a good peach, plant the pit.

The black line drawn around the police station scattered with bent nails was incredulous to mayor Stone, to the police captain, and a surprise to Hayn. "The old man gonna take on Nails? Both of them?" Stone jested, at a party hosted by Hayn. Hayn was older and remembered better.

"He's old, but even old, he's very dangerous. When you get home, you better call the Nalletto's. Warn them." Stone called, but of course the Nalletto brothers didn't answer their phone. They couldn't talk with their mouths full - very full of Creole Italian Stuffed Pepper, as they hung with their heads nailed with foot long spikes to a telephone pole near the side of police headquarters, twenty feet above the street. They hung for days because of the black line drawn around that pole.

Yet, nobody saw this happen. Of course. The Scar was the last thing you didn't see. Nobody read of this. Of course.