The Venice conspiracy

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Present Day Compton, Los Angeles Midnight.

A pimped black Buick blasts hip hop from rolled-down windows. Heads turn on a sidewalk still wet from a storm. But Tom Shaman sees and hears nothing. He's in a trance. Lost in thought.

Six-three in his bare feet, Tom has cloudy eyes and thick dark hair. Thanks to a job that lets him train two hours a day in a boxing gym, he also has the body of a heavyweight.

But right now a two-year-old could blow him over.

He's just left a squalid rental in West Alondra Boulevard where he watched an Italian immigrant die from cancer. Just hours ago, Rosanna Romano had reached her hundredth birthday. She didn't get any cards or presents. No friends or visitors. Only the doctor, Tom and now the coroner called on her. No way to end a century on earth.

Across the street, a desperate shout snaps Tom out of his melancholia.

Down an alley by a fried-chicken takeaway, an angry huddle of figures is kicking up more noise than is healthy.

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