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doggone world.”
    Crawford stood, signaling he was ready to leave. He had no more time to waste. He turned to the door, then something happened that gave him pause: Tyrone appeared from the back bedroom. He had showered and gotten dressed in a spiffy outfit, accented by shiny things. He wore a Kangol cap and a blue suit, with a matching shirt. He wore a fake-diamond-studded ring in one ear, and a thick gold chain around his neck. He had on a pair of black alligator shoes, shining so bright you could see your face in them.
    He smiled broadly. “Hey, Mr. Crawford!”
    Crawford’s face lit up like a big marquee. “Hey, Scooter!”
    Crawford fondly called him “Scooter.” He liked to hear Tyrone brag about the young women he had bedded. He liked to soak up stories about wild adventures in the fast lane, which, being old and married with grown children, Crawford could visit only in his dreams.
    â€œWhere you on your way to, Scooter?”
    â€œMe and a dude goin over to the nekkid club.”
    â€œOh, yeah?”
    â€œYeah, they got a new girl dancin there now…Albino!” He whistled and rolled his eyes around in his head.
    The two men chatted a moment, then Tyrone rushed out the door. Crawford prepared to follow. Before leaving, he stopped and turned to Barlowe.
    â€œTell you what, son. Let me get back to you on this business about the house. I’ll think about it and let you know what’s on my mind.”
    â€œThas all I can ax, Mr. Crawford. Sounds fair to me.”
    When the old man left, Barlowe sat down and crossed his legs. He crunched a few peanuts and considered the way the brief talk had gone. Crawford had made no promises, true. Nor had he flat-out turned him down. Which meant he could be persuaded.
    For a long while, Barlowe sat there and stared up at the ceiling, thinking. He had turned forty, and it had occurred to him that in all his life he had never been committed to much. He’d always known what he was against: He was against Caesar and taxes and stuff like that. But up until now he hadn’t given much thought to what he was for . He had latched onto something concrete now.
    If Crawford cooperated, this place would be his; he would become a property owner, an official resident of the Old Fourth Ward.
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    Tyrone came in later, staggering a bit. His eyes were glassy, and his hat was cocked so far to the side that it looked like it would fall off if he moved an inch. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody rag.
    Barlowe was relaxing on the back porch. He had taken a nice, long bath. He had spread newspaper on the floor, beneath his bare feet. He was bent over, clipping his toenails, and lost deep in thought about something he had seen earlier, after he let Crawford out the door. He’d seen another white man. Dressed in nylon shorts and a T-shirt, the man came jogging past and trotted down Randolph Street. Barlowe had studied him closely. The white man turned left onto Edgewood Avenue and disappeared.
    Except for tourists who were lost or turned around, white people rarely ventured on foot to that end of Auburn Avenue.
    â€œWhat you thinkin bout so hard?” Tyrone disrupted his train of thought.
    â€œNothin,” said Barlowe. “What happened to your hand?”
    â€œGot in a scrap with that punk Black Sam, down at the Purple Palace. We was shootin dice and the nigger tried to say I cheated. Had the nerve to act like he wonted some a me. We took it outside, and everybody stood back and let us go, heads-up.”
    Using his good hand, he inspected the birdcage, checking the food and water. The pigeons fluttered against the cage, clamoring to be set free. When he released them, they flew straight next door and settled in the big oak tree. He had taped red I.D. tags to their legs, in case they got lost.
    Moments later, the birds returned, their heads bobbing as they scooted in the cage. Tyrone closed the door, then held up his bloody