A small, balding white man stood there at the threshold dressed in a cheap gray cotton suit. His only outstanding feature was a bright yellow and deep red pansy in the buttonhole of his lapel. Behind the small man was a slightly taller guy who was slender. He was dressed in rust-colored trousers and a similarly hued square-cut shirt. The blouse had the vague pattern of leaves across it, like a fleeting memory of autumn.

They were both white men. Neither one smiled.

“Mr. Rawlins?” the front man asked.

“That’s me.”

“My name is Mr. Jericho and this is my associate, Orrin Cause.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Jericho?”

“May we come in?”

I considered the request. Orrin Cause gave me pause, no apologies for the rhyme. He had dead eyes and posture reminiscent of a dancer—a dancer of the dead.

“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.”

I got behind Niska’s desk and gestured for my guests to take the chairs that were there.

Jericho looked around the room while his associate stared at the wall behind my head.

Still taking in the room Jericho said, “It has been brought to my attention that a man I know has come to you with a problem concerning missing funds.”

Jericho’s eyes settled on mine as he achieved the last word.

“If you’re talking about a client of mine I can’t tell you what I’m doing for them or why.”

Cause’s left shoulder moved forward an inch or two.

“That is an honorable position, Mr. Rawlins,” Jericho said, “and I applaud you for it. But I’m afraid I have to press the question.”

“Maybe you could get this man you know to give me the okay,” I suggested.

Jericho smiled. I was not sure this was a good thing.

Seeing this duo together made me think of some two-headed mythological monster or demigod come to Earth to pass judgment or to quench a thirst for revenge.

“I believe you know a gentleman named Rufus Tyler,” Jericho suggested.

My tongue actually went dry. Rufus Tyler was more widely known as Charcoal Joe because of his skin color and his superior sketching abilities. Joe was the most feared and respected man in the black community, and beyond.

“Uh-huh,” was all I could utter.

“Why don’t you give him a call?”

“I don’t have Joe’s number.”

Orrin Cause stood and placed a slip of paper on Niska’s desk.

“You have to understand, Mr. Rawlins,” Jericho said. “I’m not a man who appreciates being rushed and I have no desire to hurry you. But in this case time is of the essence.”

There was something about the smaller man’s tone. It was the voice of someone who held the reins of authority. I took in a deep breath, picked up the slip of paper, exhaled, and then dialed.

There was one ring before the receiver was picked up.