“It’s all I have now.”

“Well, a Mister Money Man with no money. Don’t believe in ATMing? You knocking on that door? I know I got some good shit for you worth more than change. If you can be dropping more.”

Dunne put away the wallet. He took out his Secret Service badge and flipped it at Starrell.

“Take a long view, son. Some day you may need help from someone like me.”

“Fuck, you said you ain’t no cop.”

“Not a cop. Secret Service.”

“A spy man? No shit. But not all of us black men get into trouble that we need your help getting out of. Ain’t that way with me. I’m a working man. So take your badge and down-ass out of this building. My uncle owns it, and when he ain’t here what I say is word.”

Damn, Dunne thought, I misplayed this one. He’s too big and too full of himself to intimidate. And he has more to prove in this encounter than I do.

Starrell stepped aside to clear a path between Dunne and the stairwell.

“Listen, Mr. Starrell, I didn’t mean any disrespect. You caught me on a bad day. You help me now, and I’ll reimburse you for your efforts. If you want more money, you’ll have to trust me for it. If you want”—he looked at the T-shirt—“Redskins tickets—”

“Pardon the fuck out of me, they ain’t playing now.”

“Well, when they are, I’ll get you good seats.”

“Like I can’t cop my own?”

Fuck you, thought Dunne.

“Your uncle trusts you to look after the building while he’s gone?”

“Got trouble with that?”

“Not after today, he won’t.” Dunne moved toward Starrell, keeping the young man’s hands in his field of vision.

“What you mean?” Starrell asked. He formed two fists.

“Because I am going to leave this building. Then I am going to dial a number at the city office building. Then this afternoon, a building inspector’s going to be in your basement. And when he’s done, your uncle will be facing a few thousand dollars in fines and the god-damn headache of rewiring the building. After that inspector man leaves, I’m going to come back and tell your uncle why he was here in the first place—because his stupid, big-mouth nephew was too dumb to answer some polite questions. And if you don’t think I have the”—Dunne paused—“the juice to pull that off, then you don’t know shit about nothing.”

Dunne could not see anything behind Starrell’s sunglasses. He wondered if the young man was carrying a knife or gun.

Starrell swished the saliva in his mouth. He put one hand in a pocket.

“Gimme the fifty,” he said. “And you’re going to owe me another hundred, got it?”

“If it’s worth a hundred, you got it.”