The rival volunteers, or, The black plume rifles

Neither did the lights in the stairwell. It was late afternoon in early winter, nearly dark outside. Venkatesh, who is a thoughtful, handsome, and well built but not aberrationally brave person, had made his way up to the sixth floor, trying to find someone willing to take his survey. Suddenly, on the stairwell landing, he startled a group of teenagers shooting dice. They turned out to be a gang of junior-level crack dealers who operated out of the building, and they were not happy to see him. БЂњIБЂ™m a student at the University of Chicago,БЂ«Venkatesh sputtered, sticking to his survey script, БЂњand I am administeringБЂ”БЂ«БЂњFuck you, nigger, what are you doing in our stairwell?БЂ«There was an ongoing gang war in Chicago. Things had been violent lately, with shootings nearly every day. This gang, a branch of the Black Gangster Disciple Nation, was plainly on edge. They didnБЂ™t know what to make of Venkatesh. He didnБЂ™t seem to be a member of a rival gang. But maybe he was some kind of spy? He certainly wasnБЂ™t a cop ...»