“I need more toast,” he said to Spike as Blondie left. “Who’s he?” Mungo jerked his head in the direction of the shutting front door.

Spike shrugged, having learned long ago not to answer questions, and Mungo was a cop. Everybody knew it. Spike started filling a toothpick holder while Brazil made his next stop. Adjoining the Presto was the Traveler’s Hotel, where one could get a room for as little as fifty dollars per week, depending on how well one negotiated with Bink Lydle at the desk. Brazil asked his questions to Lydle and got the same information he’d been handed next door.

Lydle was not especially hospitable, his arms folded across his narrow chest as he sat behind the scarred reception desk with its bell and one-line telephone. He informed this white boy that Lydle knew nothing about these businessmen being whacked around here and couldn’t imagine that the “source of this bad shit going down” was local. Lydle, personally, had never seen anyone who made him suspicious, certainly not in his hotel, which was a city landmark, and the place to go back in the days of the Old Southern Train Station.

Brazil walked several blocks to Fifth Street and found Jazzbone’s Pool Hall. Brazil decided that somebody was going to talk to him, even if he had to take a risk. At this early hour, Jazzbone’s wasn’t doing much business, just a few guys sitting around drinking Colt 45, smoking, telling favorite stories about binges and women and winning at numbers. Pool tables with shabby green felt were deserted, balls in their triangles, waiting for tonight when the place would be crowded and dangerous until the boozy early morning. If anyone knew what was going on in the neighborhood, Jazzbone was the man.

“I’m looking for Jazzbone,” Brazil said to the drinking buddies.

One of them pointed to the bar, where Jazzbone, in plain view, was opening a case of Schlitz and aware of the golden-hair dude dressed like college.

“Yeah!” Jazzbone called out. “What you need.”

Brazil walked across cigarette-burned, whisky-smelling carpet. A cockroach scuttled across his path, and salt and cigarette ashes were scattered over every table Brazil passed. The closer he got to Jazzbone, the more he noticed details. Jazzbone wore gold rings, fashioned of diamond clusters and coins, on every finger. The gold crowns on his front teeth had heart and clover cutouts. He wore a semiautomatic pistol on his right hip. Jazzbone was neatly replacing bottles of beer in the cooler.

“All we got cold right now is Pabst Blue Ribbon,” Jazzbone said.

Last night had been busy and had wiped Jazzbone out. He had a feeling this boy wanted something other than beer, but he wasn’t undercover, like Mungo. Jazzbone could smell police and the Feds the minute they hit the block. He couldn’t remember the last time he was fooled. Jazzbone only got spanked by the other dudes out there, people coming into his establishment looking just like him, guns and all.