Arnold Rapp, the one they came to see, let them in, looked them over, turned and walked back to the couch. Jesus Diaz closed the door behind them. He liked the loud funk-rock music. He didn’t like the way the four young guys were at ease and didn’t seem to be scared. Yes, stoned, but it was more than that. They lounged, sitting very low in the couch and the chairs, no shoes on, each with long hair. They looked like bums, Jesus Diaz thought, and maybe Roland was right. Rich kids, yes, who didn’t give a shit about anything. Man, a place like this, view of the ocean, swimming pool downstairs in the court-these guys laying around drinking beer like they just came off a shift, not offering anything, waiting, like Roland was here to explain something or ask for a job. That was the feeling.

Roland said, “Your mommy home?”

They grinned at him. Arnold said, “No, no mommy, just us kids.”

Roland said, “Well now-who’re your little friends, Arnie?”

Arnold said, “Well now”-imitating Roland’s cracker accent, getting some of the soft twang-“this here is Barry. That there’re Scott and Kenny.”

The young guys-they were about in their mid-twenties-snickered and giggled.

The one called Barry, trying the accent, said, “And who be you be?”

It broke them up, “Who be you be.” The guys laughing and repeating it, Jesus, who-be-you-be. They thought it was pretty funny.

Roland walked over to the hi-fi. He brushed the stylus off the record and the funk-rock stopped with a painful scratching sound.

Arnold straightened up. “Jesus Christ, what’re you doing?”

“Getting your attention,” Roland said.

Barry was still grinning. He said, “Who-be-you-be, man?” And one of the others said, “He’s the who-be-you-be man. Comes in, who-be-you-bes your fucking records all up.”

“No, I’m the man’s man,” Roland said. “Sent me to ask you what happened to his five hundred and forty thousand dollars, I believe is the figure.”