Bodkin pushed forward in his squeaking chair so that he was sitting up straight. He examined Beastie’s sheet again and saw that the con wasn’t a druggie and didn’t have to submit to regular drug testing. Bodkin pushed his chair back, put his feet up again, clasped his fat fingers together over his fat potbelly, and said, “Don’t make me repeat myself, Beastie. I asked you a question. You have any drug convictions?”

“Paper there says I don’t, right?”

“I didn’t ask the paper, I asked you. We’re not getting off to a good start here, are we, Beastie? I ask the questions, you don’t. You give the answers, I don’t. Got that?”

“Yes, I understand,” answered Jamal.

“Good,” said Lester Bodkin. “Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah. You can’t use any drugs of any kind. Let’s see, you can’t leave the state of New York without my permission. You will notify me of any change of address immediately if not sooner. You will always keep me informed as to your whereabouts. You will notify me immediately of any arrests including traffic tickets. You understand so far, Beastie?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been married, Beastie?”

“No.”

“I can understand that. What woman would want a piece of shit like you?”

“None so far,” replied the smiling imam.

Lester Bodkin chewed on that answer for a moment to see if he could detect any wise-guy attitude in it, including Beastie’s shit-eating grin. Bodkin decided there wasn’t any wise-guy attitude in what the coal-black son of a bitch jiggy had just said and that maybe he shouldn’t push this big buck too far. The guy could kill him faster than you could say jack shit. He’d known it to happen too. The man was one big nigger.

“You need a job and fast,” said Bodkin to the imam. “You keep me abreast of all your job interviews. I’ll expect you to be employed within two weeks. If you’re not, I’ll have to decide whether or not to send you back. Understand that? And finally,” he said, “you have to tell me the truth at all times. If I catch you lyin’ to me you’ll go back to the can faster than you can say Jackie Robinson. All you niggers know who Jackie Robinson was, don’t you?” said a smirking Lester Bodkin.

“Yes, I know who Jackie Robinson was,” answered Jamal Rasheed.

“Oh, my God!” Vera Bundle shrieked again.

“What on earth is the matter?” asked the man at the table across the aisle from Vera, sitting up with a jolt. “You’re white as a ghost.”

“My wallet’s gone! It’s not in my pocketbook. It’s gone! My wallet’s gone!” Vera was on the verge of tears.

“Are you sure?” asked the man, moving to Vera’s table. He pulled out the the chair opposite Vera and sat down. “Dump everything out of your pocketbook onto the table here.” The man moved her empty daiquiri glass to the side, along with the small silver stand holding a card that explained the cover charge and minimum. “Make absolutely sure.”