But Frank Manly was not a man to stir things up. His main duty in life seemed to be to protect Alex from himself, and he was good at it. Strong and muscular, he had good physical instincts and an eye for trouble. He wondered why Alex had come back at all. What had ever possessed him to buy that damned printing press?

“Where is the press?” Alex asked quietly. Lights were coming into view up ahead—the houses of early-rising mill hands.

That goddamn printing press, Frank thought. Like it was some icon, the symbol of a divine mission. It was just a hunk of iron and a damned lot of trouble. They still owed Tom Clawson money on it. Well, at least Alex had asked about the people first. “They moved it, Lewin and the others. You missed all the hard work, brother.”

“Someplace safe, I hope.”

“Shoot. Ain’t noplace safe. But we fixed it up with St. Luke’s to rent us Free Love Hall. Two stories, good ventilation, more space than we had before.”

Alex listened: the businessman talking. Practical, sensible. Next door to a colored church, not a bad location, he thought. Might keep off some of the rougher elements—bocras didn’t like to mess with a church, superstitious that way. “So the ministers are with us.”

“Wouldn’t exactly say that,” Frank said. The ministerial union had denounced the editorial as inflammatory but made a plea to support the Record. They’d printed subscription handbills and passed them out all over Brooklyn: Pay up at once, if you please, so that we can combat the evil influences at work against our race. It was the reminder Alex himself had written and run every day at the bottom of page one.

“Oh, well. They have to be cautious.”

Frank continued, “Anyhow, the office is all set up. We’re back in business.”

Alex stiffened. “You haven’t put out a new edition?”

“No, brother—waiting on you.”

“Good. That’s good.” They didn’t need another inflammatory editorial. “Brother Norwood must be tickled,” Alex said.

Frank hooted. “Been kissing so much white ass, he’s getting calluses on his lips.”

They rode on, enjoying the breeze of movement.

“Alex?” He said it softly, so Alex knew it must be important.

“I’m listening.”

“It’s bad. You don’t know how bad it is.” After the eviction, Frank had been so worried that he tried to buy a pistol, but nobody was selling guns to blacks. A new unwritten ordinance. It was always the unwritten laws that got you.

Alex waited for more, but Frank said nothing. “You’re suggesting we cease publication for a while.”

“Only for a little while. Tempers are hot. Some mighty rough characters drifting into town. On the scout for that handsome face of yours.”