“You work for the widow on M Street. Mrs. Wagenfeld. Correct?”

Clayton nodded. “Uh, yes, suh.”

“Just so.” McKenna dropped Clayton’s hand. “She’s rumored to keep a small fortune in Spanish doubloons beneath her coal bin. Any truth to this, Clayton?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.”

“Wouldn’t tell anyone anyway if you did!” McKenna laughed and slapped Clayton on the back so hard Clayton stumbled forward a couple of steps.

McKenna stepped close to Luther. “What brought you here?”

“Suh?” Luther said. “You know I live with the Giddreauxs. This is going to be the headquarters.”

McKenna shot his eyebrows at Clayton. “The headquarters? Of what?”

“The NAACP,” Luther said.

“Ah, grand stuff,” McKenna said. “I remodeled me own house once. A constant headache, that.” He moved a crowbar to the side with his foot. “You’re in the demolition phase, I see.”

“Yes, suh.”

“Coming along?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Almost there, I’d say. ’Least on this floor. My original question, Luther, however, did not pertain to your working in this building. No. When I asked what brought you here, the ‘here’ I referred to was Boston herself. For instance, Clayton Tomes, where do you hail from, son?”

“The West End, sir. Born and raised.”

“Exactly,” McKenna said. “Our coloreds tend to be homegrown, Luther. Few come here without a good reason when they could find much more of their kind in New York or, Lord knows, Chicago or Detroit. So what brought you here?”

“A job,” Luther said.

McKenna nodded. “To come eight hundred miles just to drive Ellen Coughlin to church? Seems funny.”

Luther shrugged. “Well, then, I guess it’s funny, suh.”

“’Tis, ’tis,” McKenna said. “A girl?”

“Suh?”

“You got yourself a girl up these parts?”

“No.”

McKenna rubbed the stubble along his jaw, looked over at Clayton again, as if they played this game together. “See, I’d believe you came eight hundred miles for cunny. Now that’s a valid story. But, as it is?”

He stared at Luther for a long time with that blithe, open face of his.

Once the silence had gone on into its second minute, Clayton said, “We best get back at it, Luther.”

McKenna’s head turned, as if on a slow swivel, and he gave the open gaze to Clayton Tomes who quickly looked away.

McKenna turned back to Luther. “Don’t let me hold you up, Luther. I’d best be getting back to work myself. Thank you for the reminder, Clayton.”

Clayton shook his head at his own stupidity.

“Back out to the world,” McKenna said with a weary sigh. “These days? People who make a good wage think it’s okay to bite the hand that feeds them. Do you know what the bedrock of capitalism is, gents?”

“No, suh.”

“Sure don’t, sir.”

“The bedrock of capitalism, gentlemen, is the manufacture or mining of goods for the purpose of sale. That’s it. That’s what this country is built on. And so the heroes of this country are not soldiers or athletes or even presidents. The heroes are the men who built our railroads and our automobiles and our cotton mills and factories. They keep this country running. The men who work for them, therefore, should be grateful to be a part of the process that forms the freest society in the known world.” He reached out and clapped Luther on both shoulders. “But lately they’re not. Can you believe that?”