When McKenna had the gun to his head, Luther had realized one truth beyond any: McKenna was going to kill him before this was over. Kill him and forget all about this. He’d leave Lila untouched simply because getting involved in a nigger prosecution over a thousand miles away was pointless if the source of his rage was already dead. So Luther knew this as well: no Luther, no danger to those he loved.

“I ain’t selling out my people,” he told McKenna. “Ain’t planting anything in the NAACP offices. Fuck that and fuck you.”

Clayton let loose a hiss of disbelief.

McKenna, though, looked like he’d been expecting it. “Is that right?”

“That’s right.” Luther looked down at the toolbox. He looked back up at McKenna. “I ain’t—”

McKenna put a hand behind his ear, as if to hear better, pulled the revolver from his belt, and shot Clayton Tomes in the chest.

Clayton held up a hand, palm turned outward. He looked down at the smoke curling from the hole in his overalls. The smoke gave way to a stream of thick, dark fluid, and Clayton cupped his hand under it. He turned and walked carefully over to one of the cans of plaster he and Luther had just been sitting on while they ate and smoked and jawed. He touched the can with his hand before taking a seat.

He said, “What the…?” and leaned his head back against the wall.

McKenna crossed his hands over his groin and tapped the barrel of the pistol against his thigh. “You were saying, Luther?”

Luther’s lips trembled, hot tears pouring down his face. The air smelled of cordite. The walls shook from the winter wind.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Luther whispered. “What the fuck is—”

McKenna fired again. Clayton’s eyes widened, and a small wet pop of disbelief left his mouth. The bullet hole appeared then, just below his Adam’s apple. He grimaced, as if he’d eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and reached his hand toward Luther. Then his eyes rolled back from the effort and he lowered the hand to his lap. He closed his eyes. He took several shallow gulps of air and then the sound of him stopped.

McKenna took another sip from his flask. “Luther? Look at me.”

Luther stared at Clayton. They’d just been talking about the finish-work that lay ahead. They’d just been eating sandwiches. Tears slid into Luther’s mouth.

“Why would you do that? He didn’t mean anyone harm. He never—”

“Because you don’t run this monkey show. I do.” McKenna tilted his head and bored his eyes into Luther’s. “You’re the monkey. Clear?”

McKenna slid the barrel of the gun into Luther’s mouth. It was still hot enough to burn his tongue. He gagged on it. McKenna pulled back the hammer. “He was no American. He was not a member of any acceptable definition of the human race. He was labor. He was a footrest. He was a beast of burden, sure, nothing more. I disposed of him to prove a point, Luther: I would sooner mourn a footrest than the death of one of yours. Do you think I’m going to stand idly by while Isaiah Giddreaux and that clothed orangutan Du Bois attempt to mongrelize my race? Are you insane, lad?” He pulled the pistol from Luther’s mouth and swung it at the walls. “This building is an affront to every value worth dying for in this country. Twenty years from now people will be stunned to hear we allowed you to live as freemen. That we paid you a wage. That we allowed you to converse with us or touch our food.” He holstered the pistol and grabbed Luther by the shoulders and squeezed. “I will happily die for my ideals. You?”