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knuckle and examined it some more, thinking about Black Sam.
    â€œI dusted im off, good. Gave im a country stompin…Made me hurt my damned hand, though.”
    Barlowe kept on clipping nails. After a while he sat up straight and faced Tyrone.
    â€œListen. I had a li’l talk with Mr. Crawford.”
    â€œWhat fo?”
    â€œBizness.”
    â€œWhat kinda bizness?”
    â€œHouse bizness,” said Barlowe.
    â€œIt gonna mean payin mo rent?”
    â€œHope not.”
    â€œMe, too. I’m po as a broke-dick dog.”
    Barlowe regarded his nephew pensively, as if trying to decide whether to let him in on a secret. Then he started: “I axed Mr. Crawford to sell me the house.”
    He felt a surge of pride when he said those words. Tyrone, however, was unimpressed.
    â€œYou wanna buy this ol thang?”
    â€œYeah. This ol thing.”
    â€œWhy you wanna do that fo?”
    Barlowe’s face sagged with the weighty impatience of having to explain something that should already be understood. He looked squarely at his nephew. “Ty, I’m forty.”
    That was all he said. It was all he could think to say.
    Tyrone responded with a blank expression. Living with Barlowe he’d learned to keep harmony, mainly by tuning his uncle out when the need arose. Whenever Barlowe started talking high-minded or paranoid Tyrone would simply blast away; he’d send his mind racing right through the door.
    Barlowe recognized the vacant look and instantly discerned its meaning. He went back to clipping nails.
    With the foolish house-talk abated, Tyrone casually reached in his waistband and pulled out a gun. It was a gleaming .38, an old-school standard, with a white pearl handle. He held the gun aloft, admiring it like it was a pretty girl.
    â€œI started to pistol-whip Black Sam.”
    Barlowe looked up from his toes, wondering how long he could keep his nephew away from trouble. “Be careful, Ty. Be real careful with that. Remember. You still on parole.”
    Tyrone stuffed his gun away. “Don’t worry, Unk. I got everthang under control.”
    He went toward his bedroom and disappeared.
    Barlowe balled up the newspaper with the clipped toenails and threw it in a trash can near the door. Sitting there, he weighed the potential for things to shape up some. If he got that house, he thought, he would dig right in. He would find a good woman—maybe a “house girl” like the one Tyrone described—and build a real life for himself.
    That’s what he wanted: Something he could put his hands on.

Chapter 4
    A month after the talk with Barlowe, William Crawford showed up at the house to oversee delivery of a new refrigerator. After sputtering and groaning and hanging on for years, the old fridge had finally given up the ghost. Crawford replaced the thing with one he’d picked up from the Sears scratch-and-dent sale. It would be ages before he’d come out of his pocket to upgrade anything else. So the visit doubled as a dedication without a ribbon cutting, a chance for Crawford to publicly commend himself.
    When the deliverymen left, Crawford jangled his car keys, signaling that he, too, was about to go. Barlowe stopped him. “Wait a minute, Mr. Crawford. I wanna pick up where we left off before.”
    Crawford furrowed a thick brow, feigning puzzlement. “Huh?”
    â€œThe house,” said Barlowe. “You said you were gonna think about the house.”
    â€œOh, that .” The old man sat down and wiped his forehead. He hadn’t come here for that. Which meant he hadn’t prepared a suitable lie. He wiped his head again. “This neighborhood is historic, you know, with Martin Luther King here and all.”
    There it is, Barlowe thought. There’s the play to jack up the price.
    Crawford wiped his forehead once more. “I just dunno…I’m fine having you as a tenant…That refrigerator in there”—he