It was the same question Bernard had asked and it came from the same place—an innate distrust of newcomers.

“I was asked to come by a young man named Craig Kilian. He said I could get some information from a guy name of Kirkland Larker.”

“What kind of information?” Norman Toll was a few years older than I and certain of himself the way white men in America had been ever since they identified themselves as the master race of this magnificent land.

“Craig’s business.”

The veteran impresario was not happy with my answer but he accepted it.

“Corporal Larker,” he called to the white man watching me from the end of the bar.

“What?”

“This man wants to talk to you. He says it’s got something to do with Private Kilian.”

Kirkland Larker stared at me about three seconds longer than was civil. Then he pushed away from the wall. I honestly thought he was going to run. But after a sniffle and snort he walked my way in more or less military fashion.

When he reached us Cletus went down to the other end of the bar and Bernard, after ordering another rye and Coke on my tab, made a crablike move a few feet away.

“Corporal First Class Kirkland Larker,” Toll said, “I’d like to introduce you to Master Sergeant Easy Rawlins.”

We shook hands and Toll wandered off to a distant table.

“Drink?” Meanie asked Larker.

“On me,” I added.

“Tequila straight up,” Kirkland told Meanie.

“I’ll stick with bourbon,” I added.

Alone the corporal and I studied and sipped at our drinks. I was in no hurry and he seemed worried. The whiskey wasn’t bad. And the bartender hadn’t charged me as yet.

I liked Little Anzio. It was just another of LA’s ten thousand hidden jewels. But more, it seemed welcoming. If you overlooked Bernard’s need for confrontation, it was an ideal spot for a man like me—on an off day.

But this was no Sunday afternoon.

“You know my name?” I asked the afternoon tippler.

“I never met you or anything.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I said. “Craig Kilian came to me and said he needed my help. I wanted to know where he got my name and he gave me yours.”

Kirkland stood up a little straighter. He was in his early thirties and lean. Maybe he played basketball or something to maintain a modicum of muscle tone, but violence did not appear to be his first instinct.

“Did you talk to Craig?” he asked.

“I’m here.”

“Are you going to help him?”

“Help him what?”

“He said he got into some, you know, fight or altercation or something and it was with this black guy. It sounded like he needed help.”

“What kinda help?”