“You do that, honey. I’ll see you later on.”

Jackson got on the line after that.

“What’s happenin’, Brother Easy?”

“You busy?”

Somewhere around 2:00 a.m. Jackson Blue pulled his indigo-colored Jaguar up in front of P9 headquarters.

I was parked across the street when he arrived. He was wearing tan workpants and a white T-shirt that had seen more than its share of wear. I crossed over to meet him. Just as my foot hit the curb a police cruiser pulled up behind the dark, dark blue Jag.

“Keep your hands where we can see them,” one of the cops said. They both had pistols out as they exited the squad car.

Palms up next to his ears, Jackson greeted them: “Evenin’, officers.”

“Keep quiet,” one of the cops ordered.

They were on us but that was nothing new. What was different was that Jackson showed no fear.

“What are you doing here?” the first cop asked me. He was five eight in lifts and the color of butterfat-rich French vanilla ice cream. His eyes glittered.

“Doin’ research,” I answered honestly.

“You want me to go upside your head, boy?”

“Excuse me, officers,” Jackson said. “My name is Blue and I’m senior vice president of P9 North America. I have identification right here in my hand.”

My friend brought his right hand down slowly. When his arm was parallel to the ground I saw that he was holding some kind of identity card.

“Take a look,” the shorter cop said to the taller one.

The partner wasn’t wearing a cap. He had brown hair and a long face like Stan Laurel’s, but vacant of any sympathy. He glared at the card, looked up at Jackson, then stared at the picture ID again.

“Well?” the short cop asked, his pistol pointed somewhere around my intestines.

“It says he’s senior vice president, Jackson Blue.”

“Shit.”

“That’s what it says, Sy. It’s his picture too.”

I glanced at Jackson. He was smiling. A man who spent an entire lifetime being afraid of his own shadow, smiling in the face of two white men with guns. It was the middle of the night but it was indeed a new day.

“Can I help you, officers?” someone asked.

Another white man, this one in a brown and tan private security uniform, had come out of the central doors of the block-wide building.

“Mr. Smollett,” Sy said. “This man here says he’s some kinda vice president.”

“That’s Mr. Blue,” Smollett said with deference. “He’s the vice president. Only man above him on this continent is the CEO.”

The hatless cop handed Jackson’s ID back. Sy lifted his pistol so that it was aimed at the middle of my forehead.

“What about this one?” Sy asked.

I knew from long experience that only the slightest shift in the situation could leave me dead on the pavement.

“Is he with you, sir?” Smollett asked Jackson.