“Fuck,” Fire said.

“Lawyers draw up everything.”

“So you broke your contract with Claire, then?”

“Not exactly. Legally speaking the stuff I pay Lewis with are gifts. No judge will see anything wrong with that. But yeah.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But yeah … I broke a contract.”

Fire shoved his hands in his pockets. The ruffneck in his heart felt for his fists.

“So the girlfriend,” he asked. “She know bout this?”

“Who? Sylvia? Nah. She don’t know shit. All of what I telling you go down before she meet him. She’da leave him if she find out though. Definitely. Shit, she wouldn’t even cheat on her taxes.”

“So tell her then—” He caught himself. “No, don’t do that. But don’t pay him no more … we’ll work it out.”

“I haven’t paid him in a year. That’s why things stay the way they stay. Him threatening me with all kinda shit. Lawsuit. Immigration … because, as you know, I’m legally a citizen of France, and I’ve been over here for the last few years on an expired tourist visa. Yow, when I thinka how much work I gi dat pussyhole … I mussi pay him like a thousand percent interest over the last five years. From I born outta my mother womb I never see anybody so fucking—”

“So what have you learned from all this?” Fire asked. He was thinking of Miss Gita now. “I notice you’re wearing a chronograph. A regular watch wouldn’t do?”

Ian looked up at him, his eyes dimming then flaming—bulbs hit by a power surge.

“You know what I love about you?” he said as he picked up his clothes. “You always feel like you can judge me. Like you perfect.”

He pointed with an open hand as he dressed with the other.

“You waah know why I wear a TAG and you wear a Timex? Because you used to visit the ghetto on holiday and I used to live there. Because your father is a painter and my ole man was a thief. Because your mother was a pilot and mine is a maid. Because before I went to study in London I’d never been on a plane. For these and other reasons, Fire, I cyaah wear a Timex. I must wear a TAG. You know what your problem is, Fire? You like to be a savior. People don’t always need you, man. Trust me on that.”

The phone rang. Claire had had to leave Diego’s barbecue early and had asked someone to give Fire a number to reach her.

As soon as he got off the phone Ian said he had to go, promising to meet up with Fire later and do something.

“What?” Fire asked.

Ian said he’d figure it out.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice in an organ swell, the sound easing up then bearing down on the lick of a guitar. Al Green. “Love and Happiness.” One of his favorite songs.

“Hi,” he said, dancing with himself. “I’m a friend of Claire’s. She left this number for me. Is she there?”