A story out of Charlotte—run beside yet another installment of Manly’s infamous editorial—tallied up the Negroes who held offices in New Hanover County: four city aldermen, four deputy sheriffs out of a six-man department, the county coroner, the register of deeds and two clerks, a township constable, forty city and county magistrates, thirteen of twenty-four city police officers, the collector of customs, four health officers, and various assistants. Some eighty-six in all. An outrage, concluded the piece: “The Negroes of New Hanover County are ‘too big for their britches’!’’

“Why does he run that stuff?” Harry Calabash folded his copy of the newspaper and laid it on the table. “Wondered where you were off to so early yesterday, Samuel,” he said laconically, sipping a neat whiskey. “I don’t any longer get invited on such outings.”

“Wasn’t such a big honor.”

The piece was out in today’s Messenger: Wilmington Light Infantry Unveils Instrument of Civil Order. No mention of Clawson, Rountree, MacRae, or Walker Taylor. Kenan was referred to only as an officer in the army. The Negro men were named: John Norwood, Frank Manly, Carter Peamon, Tom Miller, David Jacobs, Jim Telfair, Norman Lindsay, and Armond Scott.

Clawson had given him the list of names—another list to keep track of. Sam had then pored over the city directory and asked Harry for whatever information wasn’t listed there.

Armond Scott was the lawyer he had seen around town and then at the Manly near-lynching. Clean-cut, short-cropped hair, about thirty, innocent eyes. Graduate of Shaw University, admitted to the bar at twenty-one. Scott was the one who had pissed himself.

Norman Lindsay was a foreman at Wilmington Cotton Mills, MacRae’s outfit. A working stiff.

Jim Telfair, a lay minister, was also manager of Sprunts’ Champion Compress and a part-time copyeditor for Manly’s Daily Record. Busy fellow, Sam reflected.

David Jacobs, a barber, was the county coroner.

Carter Peamon, another barber, was a ward boss in Brooklyn.

Tom Miller dabbled in real estate, but his bread and butter was his loan and pawn business.

John Norwood was Gray Ellen’s boss over at Williston. She spoke highly of him.

And of course, he’d already met Frank Manly. The way Manly had glared at him still queered his stomach.

Harry wasn’t paying much attention to Sam. He sat hunched over his drink, elbows propped on the table, brooding. Remembering, Sam was sure—a man like that must have plenty of things to remember, a lifetime all used up in one place.

“I’m no longer considered reliable,” Harry said, with great regret. “Time was, nobody who was anybody would make a move without consulting Harry Calabash. Not in the whole damned county.”