"White folks think the policy game is gambling," Rufus said, laughing softly. "But we knows better."

"We do?"

"It's a religion, son." Even in the dark Murphy's gold teeth gleamed. "It's mystery. It's lucky numbers. It's hot numbers. It's taking the numbers offa the license plates of a car that done rear-ended you. It's the number off your streetcar transfer that suddenly stares up at you and says play me, I is the one. It's asking a chile for a number… children are lucky, ya know, they're best ones to give you winnin' gigs." He stopped and laughed heartily, hands on his hips, as merry a king as Ole King Cole. Then he extended an arm and spread the fingers of one big hand, as if assaying his dominion. "It's a dream you have at night, it's the dream book that tells you what the dream means in the mornin', it's gypsy fortune tellers, it's the date the President died…"

Johnson smiled a little, amused despite himself. "You love it, don't you, Rufus?"

"The numbers is a way of life," Rufus said, smiling, but serious. "And it ain't got a blessed motherfuckin' thing to do with white men."

"Money," said Johnson, dispensing some folk wisdom of his own, "attracts whites like flies on shit. That is the surest bet in town, Rufus."

Rufus shook his head, but his smile didn't disappear. "You got no poetry in your soul, Toussaint. You got your papa's business head, but you ain't got a drop of your mama's poetry."

"Maybe so." Johnson put on his hat, tipped it. "Goodnight, Rufus."

"Good-night, son."

The policy king began to trudge up the gentle incline of his paved driveway, while Johnson paused for the easy flow of traffic to let him cross. He stepped onto the opposite sidewalk, glancing back with affection at the fat little policy king, who was approaching the bushes near his garage.