Spreading his arms like a pudgy messiah, Murphy said, 'Toussaint, my man, come in, come in…"

He opened the door and Johnson lumbered in, taking off his hat.

"Smells mighty fine," the detective said, glancing around the large modem red-and-white kitchen. Several pots and pans were steaming on the stove, but the enamel-topped table, partly covered by a red-and-white checkered cloth, was already set for two with two covered serving dishes and an overflowing platter of cornbread.

"I sent Mamie to bed," Rufus said, referring to his wife of twenty-odd years, an ex-showgirl who was pleasantly plump now. He seemed proud of himself. "I cooked this mahse'f."

"I hear you was the best cook the Santa Fe Railroad ever had," Johnson conceded with a mild smile.

Rufus gestured for Johnson to sit down, which the detective did. The pudgy numbers boss uncovered the dishes and said, "He'p yourself, son," and Johnson filled his plate with well-seasoned boiled collard greens, okra, and pig's feet from the larger of the two dishes, and steaming black-eyed peas from the other, then speared a hunk of cornbread off the platter.

From the refrigerator Rufus got two sweating bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, opened them both, gave one to Johnson. Rufus immediately drained his beer, then popped himself open another.

The two men sat and ate and drank in silence for several minutes.

"Done yourself proud, Mr. Murphy."

"Rufus, son. After all these years, ain't we friends enough for first names?"