The front gates were open so I cruised down the unpaved dirt path that led to the only office building on the lot. This was a two-story structure that looked like a pair of mismatched train cars stacked one upon the other.

There were men all over the place, driving and banging, toting and smoking cigarettes.

A white man with a mostly bald head and broad shoulders emerged from the front doorway of the train-car building. He was on the short side but built like a fireplug. Even the way he walked seemed to seethe with anger.

He strutted over to where I’d gotten out of my car.

“Can I help you?” he shouted.

“Hi,” I said, extending a hand. The angry man waited a moment before deciding to shake. When he did it was with a show of great strength.

I extricated my hand from the viselike grip, saying, “My name’s Rawlins. I’m a private detective investigating a robbery.”

“Nobody stole anything around here.”

“I just have a couple of questions.”

“Time is money, Rawlings. And you don’t do a thing for me.”

“Ten minutes at most,” I assured him.

“I don’t know you,” he said. “And I haven’t had an extra ten minutes since my wife and I made our fourth child.”

“You had an Alonzo Griggs and Dennis Plennery working for you, right?”

“I don’t know you,” Pitman said again. “And because of that I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“Do you know a Leon Starr?” I asked.

It took Pitman a simmering moment before he said, “Get the hell offa my property!”

I looked him in the eye, letting him know that he didn’t scare me but maybe he should be scared. Then I went to my car, retraced the route I had taken, finally coming to a 76 gas station across the street. In yet another phone booth I called a number that Jewelle had given me. Then I parked on the street and went to stand out in front of the construction company fence.

The gate had been shut and locked behind me.

A guy in jeans and a dark green, uniform-like jacket strolled over to keep me company. He was tall and lean, white with a scowl on his face that spoke, I supposed, to the lack of a mother’s love.

“You should move on, son,” the white man advised, a hint of the South putting a spin on his words.

“Did you study history in shit-kicker high school?” I asked him.

“What the fuck you say to me?”

“Come on out past the gate and I’ll whisper it in your ear, Huck, honey.”

“Faggot nigger!” he exclaimed.

“More than enough to kick your ass, peckerwood.”