Two of the men grabbed Starrell by the arms. He tried to squirm out of their holds. But the grips were tight. He kicked at them. But his feet found no target. He felt himself being lifted off the ground. He was carried inside to the bar area.

“Let go, motherfuckers!” he shouted.

He heard the men laughing.

Then a huge hand passed by his face and connected with one of the hands holding his right arm.

“Shit,” someone said in pain.

“Break it up, you fags,” a new voice was saying. “Stop it. Now!”

The grips loosened and Starrell’s feet returned to the floor. A large man with a long red beard was pushing the men away from Starrell.

“Shit, it’s not even past eight o’clock. What the hell’s going on?”

“Sorry, Big Daddy, this punk was not being friendly on the balcony,” one explained, “so we decided to remove him from the field of action.”

“Do I pay you boys to MP my place?” Lopez asked.

No one said anything.

“Fucking-A right, I don’t.”

He waved his hands at them: “Go back to your party. And let me worry about what goes on here.”

The gang shuffled toward the balcony. Starrell thought about bolting. But this scene was too weird and this man too big.

“You—come with me!”

Lopez grabbed Starrell and pulled him down the stairs, to an office in the back of the ground floor. He pushed Starrell into a wooden chair. An arm to the chair fell off.

“Got to get that fixed,” Lopez said. “Pound it back in for me, okay?”

He sat behind his desk and introduced himself: “But I ain’t no spic. Not that there’s something wrong with spics. Just want people to know.”

“Sure, alright,” Starrell said.

Motherfucker could be a pro wrestler, Starrell thought. With that long red beard, he could call himself the Viking Volcano.

“Boy, now what are you doing here?” Lopez asked. “And don’t you get stressed-out; that ‘boy’ ain’t no black thing. I call everybody ‘boy’. Okay?”

“Can I call you ‘boy’?” Starrell stared hard at Lopez.

Lopez laughed and slapped the desk.

“Call me whatever you fucking want. But tell me what you’re doing here. My queer radar don’t pick up a signal. So what do you want?”

“Looking for this Raymond dude. Looks squirrelly. You know him?”

“Fuck, this ain’t no lost and found. Yesterday, and now this. What is it? Find-a-fag week?”

Starrell didn’t follow him. But he watched as Lopez picked up a business card from his desk.

“Why you looking for him?” Lopez asked.

“Got some stuff of his. Some papers.”

“And what are you going to do when you find him?”

“Ask if he wants them back.”

“So you’re a do-gooder, then?”

The door opened, and a blond-haired man came into the room.

“What is it?” Lopez barked.