As we walked down Central Avenue, many people greeted him, some calling him Terrence, some calling him Mr. Dexter, some merely tipping their hats. They all looked rather askance at me. These were well-dressed people, the women wearing hats, the men in suits. At the same time, many of the businesses we passed were shuttered, and in those doorways drunks sprawled, or men squatted, their faces to the sun, their eyes closed, their shoes broken, their pants stained with urine.

As we passed one of these derelicts, Terrence said, “When I was a kid, this was a great place to grow up. My brother and sisters and I, we had a fine childhood here, my mother’s family all around, Bowers and Goodalls, and Prestons. In these neighborhoods, doctors and lawyers lived next door to plumbers and carpenters. Kids went to the same churches, the same schools. We all took piano lessons or sang in the church choir. We all went to Jefferson High. Everyone looked out for everyone else. But since the War, everything’s changed. Now . . .” He stopped to light a cigarette. “Now heroin’s moved in. And with the old covenants breaking down, lots of people are moving out. It’s all different.”

“Covenants?”

“Don’t you remember Hattie McDaniel fighting those covenants on West Adams? Took her years in court, but she won, and now there’s no more covenants saying where Negroes can live or rent. I mean, now they’re illegal, but we’re still fighting for fair housing.”

“Hattie McDaniel. You mean Mammy from Gone with the Wind?”

He gave me a look I can only describe as pained, more pained than the fresh stitches over his eye, as he pushed open the door of a large café.

Ruby’s had a long counter and a lot of booths (everything upholstered in maroon) lining the walls with tables in the middle. The air was full of cigarette smoke and scents I couldn’t immediately identify—frying, I expect. A big colorful jukebox blared out music I had never heard, a raucous voice I can only describe as Not Perry Como. It was like a foreign country. I was relieved, though I’m not sure why, to see a mixed group, two whites and two Negroes, come in and take a table in the center.

A colored woman, full-bodied and broad-shouldered, strode out from the kitchen at the back. She wore a neat uniform in black and white trimmed with red. Terrence introduced her as his Aunt Ruby, Clarence’s wife. “Oh! Look at you!” she cried. “Look at you both! Miss Granville! I heard you was caught up in that nasty business the other night. How is Booker, Terrence?”

Terrence shrugged. “He’ll live.”

“And the horn?” she asked urgently. “You get the horn back?”

“I did, but don’t mention it to him yet. I gotta have it fixed first.”