“What juncture would you two prefer?” Peters said. “Rubble?”

“Governor Coolidge stated that countless studies have shown that rioting in a case like this never begins on the first night. It takes the mob a full day to mobilize.”

“Given that very few cities have ever watched their entire police department walk off the job,” Peters said, trying to keep his voice under control, “I’m wondering how many of these countless studies pertain to our immediate situation, Commissioner.”

“Mr. Mayor,” Curtis said, looking over at his bodyguard, as if he expected him to wrestle Peters to the ground, “you need to take your concerns up with the governor.”

Andrew Peters stood and took his boater from the corner of the desk. “If you’re wrong, Commissioner, don’t bother coming to work tomorrow.”

He left the office, trying to ignore the tremors in the backs of his legs.

Luther!”

Luther stopped at the corner of Winter and Tremont Streets and looked for the source of the voice. Hard to tell who could have called to him because the streets were filling as the sun flattened against red brick and the greens of the Common darkened with its passing. Several groups of men had spread themselves out in the Common and were openly running dice games, and the few women still on the streets walked quickly, most tightening their coats or cinching their collars close to their throats.

Bad times, he decided as he turned to walk down Tremont toward the Giddreauxs’ home, are definitely coming.

“Luther! Luther Laurence!”

He stopped again, his windpipe grown cold at the sound of his true surname. A familiar black face appeared between two white faces, swimming its way out of the crowd like a small balloon. Luther recognized the face but it still took him a few anxious seconds to place it with certainty as the man split between the two white people and came toward the sidewalk with one glad hand raised above his shoulder. He slapped the hand down into Luther’s and his grip was firm.

“Luther Laurence, I do declare!” He pulled Luther into a hug.

“Byron,” Luther said as they broke the hug.

Old Byron Jackson. His old boss at the Hotel Tulsa, head of the Colored Bellmen’s Union. A fair man with the tip pool. Old Byron, who smiled the brightest of all smiles for the white folk and cursed them with the nastiest shit imaginable as soon as they’d left his presence. Old Byron, who lived alone in an apartment above the hardware store on Admiral, and never spoke of the wife and daughter in the daguerreotype atop his bare dresser. Yeah, Old Byron was one of the good ones.

“A bit north for you, isn’t it?” Luther said.

“That’s the truth,” Old Byron said. “You, too, Luther. As I live, I never expected to find you here. Rumors had it…”

Old Byron looked out at the crowd.

“Had it what?” Luther said.

Old Byron leaned in, his eyes on the sidewalk. “Rumors had it you were dead, son.”