Rufus stood up and slammed his hand flat on the table; the dishes rattled. "They ain't gettin' rid of me. I ain't goin' nowhere!"

"When the big bell rings," Johnson said calmly, nibbling at a piece of pig's foot, "all our black asses is up for grabs."

Rufus was trembling; whether with rage or fear, Johnson couldn't tell. "What are you sayin'? They gon' try and kill old Rufus?" His laugh was as harsh as it was unconvincing. "Bunch of candy-ass paddies gon' come to my part of town and play that game?"

"Why not? Mr. Murphy. Please. Sit down. Enjoy this fine feast you made. I ain't the enemy."

Rufus swallowed, seeming embarrassed suddenly, and he sighed and sat. "What are they doin' here, anyway? The numbers ain't their game. It ain't never been a white man's game."

"I don't know about that. My mama said the Spanish conjured it."

"The Spanish ain't white."

A smile cracked Johnson's African mask of a face. "Whiter than us, but so what? The wops are movin' in. Prohibition is yesterday. Today it's a new racket they need." Johnson chuckled. "Ever since the income-tax boys took notice of your pal Holstein in Harlem, the world knows just how high off the hog you policy kings is livin'."

A forgotten piece of cornbread in his hand, Rufus studied his half-eaten plate of collard greens, okra, and pig's feet like a gypsy lady trying to divine a winning number from her crystal ball. Without looking up, he said, "They sent me a message."

Johnson looked up from his food, sharply. "What sort of message?"

Rufus got up, got himself another beer, opened it, drank half of it in one gulp, then sat again and winced as he said, "Frank Hogey sent one of his boys over to see me."

Hogey was the only white among black Cleveland's four policy kings. Most of his staff was colored.