“I need a reason to call,” he said.

His partner, just as white and tall but a little more thoughtful, came up close to us.

“Listen, man,” I said. “Call Bo on the phone and say that Mr. Rawlins is here like he asked.”

“I don’t have to do anything you say,” he replied petulantly.

He was acting as if I was oppressing him by asking him to do his job. On top of that he was asserting his God-given entitlement as a white man to banish my rights. These responses called up a feeling in me that I can only describe as revolutionary. I don’t know what might have happened if the other doorman hadn’t put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and whispered something. The angry doorman moved aside, allowing his partner to step up.

“What’s your name again, sir?” the new inquisitor asked.

“Ezekiel Porterhouse Rawlins.”

I sat at the far end of the bar that was removed by the waiters’ space from the nearest next barstool. Bo had served me a club soda and a small bowl of soy-glazed rice crackers. I watched him talking to and serving the six other customers he had. In between conversations he prepared drinks for the waitstaff to serve.

Tierce was an inch or so under six feet and reminiscent of a bleached lion. With dirty blond hair that washed against his forehead and ears, he looked dangerous and a little wild. He was perfect for that hotel and time. Anything a guest might want, from a marijuana cigarette to company for the night, he would do his best to procure. After all, he had sworn to buy his mother a new house.

After a round of drinks and good cheer Bo made his way to me.

“You got Mr. Charlie downstairs real hot, Cousin Easy.”

“You mean the doorman?”

“Oh yeah. He said that you were rude and threatening.”

“Threatening? There were two of them.”

“That’s what I told him,” Bo said, exhibiting a hungry grin. “I said if they couldn’t take care’a one man that maybe they’d like to transfer to maid services.”

“How’s it going, Bo?”

“This here’s the best job I ever had, Cousin. Last week a young woman brought me up to her room just so she could sit on my lap.”

I smiled and nodded.

“What can I do for you, Cuz?”

“Donata Delphine.”

Bo’s murky brown eyes had the look of the swamps where men like him and me came from.

“You in need of a little company?” he asked.

“I don’t think I could afford the likes of Donata.”

“Then what?”

“I’m on a job.”

The bartender rubbed his nose, then glanced over at some guy in an overly green suit who was trying to get his attention.

“She’s a good kid,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to cause her no trouble.”