Rufus rubbed his face with a cloth napkin, which he wadded up and discarded contemptuously; a tip of the napkin found its way into the pot of greens, okra, and pig's feet.

He pushed away from the table, stood, and said, "It's all talk. Them guineas ain't gonna find the Roarin' Third open to white folks. Let 'em try to muscle in. We'll send 'em all back to Murray Hill with their pale asses bloody and drag-gin'."

Johnson had finished his food. He took a final swig of the Pabst, which was still cold. The conversation, and the meal, had been brief.

The detective rose and said, "I wish I could help, Mr. Murphy. I truly do."

Rufus warmed to that and came around and put a hand on the taller man's shoulder; he squeezed. "You a good friend, Toussaint. I know you always do your best."

The cop's hard features went momentarily soft; he felt something tender for this fat little man who'd done so much for him and the community.

He said, "I'm givin' you good advice, Mr. Murphy. Accommodate these white boys. Render under Caesar that which is his and you'll stay a king yo'self."

Rufus sighed and smiled and shook his head sadly, "I stopped servin' white folks a long time ago, son, when I quit the Santa Fe."

"You still in the United States, though," Johnson reminded him, gently, as they stood near the door.

The fat policy king laughed softly and patted the younger man on the back. "What's your hurry? Mamie made some pecan pie yesterday; they's a couple slabs left."

"No thanks, Mr. Murphy."

"For Christsakes, will you call me Rufus! Business talk is over."

Johnson smiled; it was a surprisingly warm smile for such a hard- and cold-looking man. "Sure, Rufus. I'll see you next week. Payday."

Rufus smiled on one side of his face. "You never miss a one of those, do you, son? Here, I'll walk you out."

The night had gotten colder; the sky was as black as shutting your eyes. Johnson folded his arms and gathered himself in. But Rufus seemed to drink the chill in like another cold beer. They moved slowly down the gentle slope of Murphy's driveway, the small fat man gesturing as they walked and talked.