"Hey, auntie," the Jew called to a big black woman leaning from a first-floor window. "What floor does Rufus Wright live on?"

The woman gave him an evil look. "If you means Alberta Wright, she lives on the top floor."

The Jew's eyebrows shot upward, but he didn't reply.

"If Rufus has brought in a woman, we won't touch it," he said to his helpers as they climbed the smelly stairs.

The helpers said nothing.

On the fourth floor, a slick-looking Negro with straightened hair beckoned from the rear door and said, "Psst." He was wearing a pink sport shirt, a green silk suit and yellow linen shoes, and he had a wide, confidential grin.

The Jew and his helpers entered the parlor of a two-room flat.

The Negro closed the door and locked it, then said, "All right, daddy-O, let's get on."

The Jew looked about suspiciously. "You're alone, ain't you?" He had been around colored people so long he talked like one.

"Ain't I always?" the Negro countered.

"You know I got to get it straight."

"All right, set up your alibis."

The Jew frowned. "That's a bad word," he said, but the Negro didn't argue the point. The Jew asked, "Your name is Rufus Wright, ain't it?"

"Right," Rufus said.

The helpers, standing just inside the doorway, sniggered. Every time the Jew bought anything from Rufus, he went through the same act.

"This Is your place, ain't it?"

"Right."

"You own the furniture, don't you?"

"Right."

"Who is this woman, Alberta Wright?" the Jew threw in suddenly.

"Her? She's my wife," Rufus said, without batting an eye.

"Why didn't you stick to being a bachelor?" the Jew complained. "That was safer."

"Well, you see, daddy-O, this time it's different," Rufus said. "This time it's on her account that I got to sell my furniture."