Dworkin said, “When do we lose this money, Sam? When we sell the houses in twenty years? You planning to live that long?”

“Sure not,” Fineman said, “but our kids will. So they get screwed.”

They all looked at Levy. Levy said, “Sussman wants us to think like that.” He smiled. “You know who he reminds me of?” They waited. “Leo Cohn,” Levy said. Leo Cohn had been a kapo. He’d been fat and sadistic and had oily skin. He took bribes and rarely delivered.

“What happened to him?” Walinsky asked.

Alldmann answered, “They shot him when they cleared out.” The men smiled and Dworkin said, “So we should worry because he tells us to? Where does it say that one black family—a doctor, mind you—is gonna cost us money? We cut and run and all we do is have more heartache and put money in that fat bastard’s pocket. Besides, black people can move anywhere. It’s the law, am I right?” Most nodded. “So where does drekkopf guarantee that it won’t happen in Wading River or Riverhead? . . .”

Levy turned to Luria. “What do you say, Isaac?”

Luria laughed and shook his head. His laugh was infectious and they all smiled. “I wouldn’t move if Martin Bormann bought the Ross house.”

“Martin Bormann is white,” Dworkin said. “Blacks bought the Ross house.”

“I don’t give a shit for blacks one way or the other,” Luria said.

“Why then did I have the impression that you hated Roger Hawkins?” said Walinsky.

“Because he was a putz,” Luria said. “Black or white, he had the soul of a putz.”

“Don’t say that,” Levy said, sharply.

“Why not?” Luria asked. “After all the years you were friends with him he never came to visit. Did he?” Luria’s eyes sharpened. “Did he?” he asked again.

Levy stood up and Walinsky said quickly, “He visits, he doesn’t visit, who cares? The question is, what do we do about this.”

“You hate blacks?” Luria asked. Walinsky shook his head.

“Any of you hate blacks?” He looked around the room at all of them. One by one they shook their heads.

“So we stay?” Luria asked. They all looked at Levy, who nodded.

“Those old guys’re okay,” Allan said to Rachel. They were at an Italian restaurant in Port Jefferson. “I mean they really put their money where their mouth is.” He drank wine while the waiter cleared the table and they ordered coffee.

“For principles,” he said. “Shit . . . that’s remarkable.” He shook his head. “I mean what kind of folk in 1980 would actually . . .”