“Nothing doing. I got a lot of material to bone up on by Tuesday.”

“You’re turning me down for the first time.” She pretended to be grieved.

“Not exactly. I just don’t want to get stoned.”

“I sort of thought you’d make yourself up like a Negro. I was all ready for you to be a Negro.”

The fact was that on two occasions he had worn blackface and they had had a splendid time. Unfortunately he had neglected the base for the makeup on both occasions and it was a bitch to get off. It left his eyes pink and his skin raw.

“I don’t feel like being a Negro today. I have too much on my mind.”

“Okay, I know you do and I’m happy for your job. Let’s settle for the tuxedo.” She sat down on the chair near the window and hugged her knees. Despite his preoccupation with the Rabun business, his wiener began to swirl in his trousers at the sight of her underthighs and discrete thatch, nestled there like a thrush, nest and all.

“So it’s the tuxedo on Sunday.” He rose and thrust the briefcase into the refrigerator.

“Why the refrigerator. Are you nuts?”

“In house fires, excepting those of extreme nature, the contents of the refrigerator are rarely disturbed.”

The scenario of the tuxedo was solid, but scarcely as electric as the fresher Negro. Warlock was a high-class swell arriving at an extremely expensive whorehouse. Diana was a demure country girl on her first day on the job, and wearing only a satin slip he had purchased in an antique clothing shop in New York. They would dance, at first stiffly, then tenderly, to a Frank Sinatra album. Then he would pretend to be drunk and begin mauling her, at which she would weep. He then, with unbridled sensuality, would guide her to an armchair over whose arms her lovely legs would eventually settle. It went on from there at some length, depending on their energies. On this particular Sunday hers exceeded his by several fathoms. He was ransomed by a loud knock at the door which sent Diana wobbling to the bedroom. He zipped up and measured his tread, slicking back his hair.

It was Clete and his wife La Verne. He waved at them through the oval window of the door, neglecting to open it. Somewhere in his brain there was still a jackhammer in operation. He remembered that he had invited them over to barbecue something. Rather than prolong the inane gaze, Clete opened the door.

“Having a dance?” Clete asked, noting the tuxedo. He was carrying a large package. La Verne looked around with amused suspiciousness. She knew that everyone was odd and did not particularly question it.

“You might say that. I got a job.” Warlock followed them into the kitchen.

“Doing what?” Clete tried to open the refrigerator.