MacRae said, “The telephone, Mike. New invention. Why don’t you have your men dismount and water their horses?”

Dowling glared at him. All along the block, people were leaning out open windows to see what was happening. Dowling gave a signal. His men dismounted and shielded themselves behind their horses. It was unthinkable that the infantry would fire on them. But they were dealing with MacRae.

“Let’s just talk awhile, you and me,” MacRae said.

Dowling followed him into L. B. Sasser’s drugstore, where Sasser, a member of MacRae’s Secret Nine, joined them at a table in the back room.

“I don’t have to tell you,” MacRae began, “that we face a delicate situation here.”

“Don’t pussyfoot around,” Dowling said too loudly. With enough bravado, he could reassure himself. “Delicate, hell. Me and my boys, we try to set things right. Well, we sure know who our friends are.”

“We’re all on the same side,” MacRae said coolly. Sasser’s clerk brought them all coffee.

“Funny way to show it, then—drawing down on my boys.”

Sasser said, “Shut up, you goddamn mackerel-snapper. Listen to your betters.”

Dowling shoved back from the table and jumped up, spilling his coffee. “That’s it! I’ve taken about all I’m going to take! You goddamn high-hats have it all worked out! Well, Mike Dowling wants in on the action, see? I want of piece of this thing. Me and my boys—”

“What do you want, Mike?” MacRae said gently. “Sit down.” He said to the clerk, “Bring the boy more coffee.” MacRae was younger than Dowling, but nobody remarked the irony.

The clerk obliged, then mopped up the spill with a towel.

Dowling tried to get his rage under control. He was all jacked up this morning. His hands were shaking so hard he couldn’t bring the cup to his lips. His mouth was full of the sour taste of adrenaline. He couldn’t get his spit. He had worked himself up to what they must do today, and this was no time to lose his nerve. He steadied the cup. Finally, he managed a sip. “We want to work. We want jobs. Them niggers got all the good jobs locked up.”

“We can do that,” MacRae said amiably. “Honest white men ought to work.”

“Right,” Sasser said. “Bring a little dignity back to the working classes.”

Dowling scowled, but before he could say anything else, MacRae said, “Would you like to be a fireman, Mike?”

It had never crossed his mind. “A fireman, huh?” He rolled his eyes toward the pressed-tin ceiling, as if imagining himself driving the big hook-and-ladder wagon. “Sure, that would be a fine thing. One of them city jobs. They can’t fire you over every pizzlin’ thing.”

“You can lead men, Mike. You’ve got the makings of an officer.”