“Nuthin’ for me,” Fearless added.

“You’re Fearless Jones, right?” Hampton James asked.

“Yes sir.”

Hampton was a nearly perfect specimen of manhood. He was five eleven with maple-brown skin. He was wide in the shoulder, with only ten pounds more than he needed on his frame. He had a small scar under his left eye and eyebrows that even a vain woman wouldn’t have touched up. His lips were generous and sculpted. And his oiled hair was combed back in perfect waves in the way that Hindu Indians draw hair on their deities.

“I saw you get in a fight one night down on Hooper,” Hampton said to Fearless. “Down at the Dawson’s Market.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you remember?” Hampton asked.

“Did I win it?”

“Oh yeah. Yes you did. It was a big dude named Stern but you put him down and they had to carry him off.”

“I don’t remember any fights but the ones I lost,” Fearless said in a rare show of pride.

“How many you remember?”

“None comes to mind.”

Hampton had a sharp laugh, like the chatter of a dozen angry wrens. I laid down two dimes for my twelve-cent coffee. He pocketed them, keeping the change for his tip.

“What you boys want?” Hampton asked. He was looking at me.

“Why you think we want anything other than coffee?” I asked him.

“No Negroes drop in here for coffee, brother. An’ even if they did, it’s cause they work for the trains. Any civilian knows about my door would come at night or on his way to someplace else.”

“We could be on the road somewhere,” I speculated.

Hampton looked at my clothes, which were only made for working, and shook his head.

“Dressed like that,” he said. “And with not even a valise between you. I don’t think so.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “You right. The reason we’ve come is that Fearless here owes me twenty dollars.”

“So?”

“He don’t have it, but he told me that his friend Kit owed him for a week’s work he did out in Oxnard. Kit was supposed to pay him Wednesday last but he never showed up.”