“The white man’s government?”

“Everybody’s government,” he said.

The uncle chuckled in disdain: “Well, I don’t give no nevermind. Take him and give me peace for one day. But tomorrow he better fix the toilet on the fourth floor. We just got one working now. Boy won’t tell you. But he’s good at plumbing, wiring, and building. Only reason why I put up with all that.”

Dunne took that to mean the dress, the attitude, the disrespect.

“He must be good, then,” Dunne said with a smile.

He left the office. Starrell waited several seconds before following. Outside the building, Starrell rousted a homeless man sitting by the entrance.

“Told your skanky HIV-ass to beat it,” Starrell said. He poked the man with his foot. The fellow crawled a few feet, then got up, and moved off. Dunne gently placed a hand on Starrell’s shoulder. Starrell jerked back and waited for Dunne to remonstrate him.

“Any place to get a good burger around here?” Dunne asked.

“Just Mickey D’s. My unc says there used to be all these lunch counters around. Lunch counters, lunch counters. He goes on like it’s a fuckin’ fairy tale. Run by black men. Where black men ate black and talked black. But the chinks squeezed’em out. Now it’s all chink around here.”

“Let’s try this one,” Dunne said.

The two entered a Chinese restaurant and sat in the back.

“Please take off your glasses,” Dunne said.

“What’s it to you?” Starrell shot back.

“I like to see someone’s face when I do business with them.”

Starrell took off the sunglasses and hung them from the collar of his sweatshirt. He had what Dunne called seeing eyes.

A waiter came by, and Dunne said several words to him in Chinese. The waiter nodded and left two menus.

“Whatcha say?” Starrell asked.

“It was just a Chinese greeting.”

“You know Chink?”

“Mandarin, a few words.”

“So what’s the business?” Starrell asked.

“I want you to help me find the guy who rented that office in your building. Raymond.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“I’ve been told where he likes to hang out.”

“Where’s that?”

“Bars.”

“Only a million of those.”

“A certain kind.”

“What kind?”

“I’ll pay you well.”

“You deaf. I said, what kind?”

“Twice as much as those sneakers.”

“What is it?”

“Gay bars.”

“NFW, man. You think I’m cruisin’ in and out of the bender joints, looking for a fuckin’’mo? That stuff makes me sick.”

Dunne pointed to the sneakers: “Three times as much.”

“Shit, I can do that by truckin’ a paper bag’cross the street.”

“But you don’t. Do you?”

Starrell took his sunglasses and tapped them against the Formica tabletop.

“Why not?” Dunne asked.

“’Cause.”

“Because why?”

“Just’cause.”

“Bullshit. You scared?”