was nudging the establishment into drugs and prostitution. Now a parade of glaze-eyed zombies drifted in and out like it was the main post office downtown. Now flashy women strolled the strip, searching menâs eyes for desire as they waved at passing cars. And the menâs wives, if they happened to be riding along, commented for the thousandth time: âSomethin oughta be done bout that place.â
Traipsing along, Barlowe studied the Palace, where the front door was left ajar. That front door stayed open all the time, even in winter. He passed the place and made his way on down the street.
By the time Barlowe finished his rounds, the Sunday sun had set. The neighborhood had begun hunkering down for the evening. Children were called home for supper. Working folks scuttled in to prepare for the next dayâs grind. They ironed their work clothes or packed their bag lunches, or simply tried to gear their weary minds for another week of hard labor and routine insults on low-paying jobs.
As Barlowe reached home, a huge dump truck rumbled past, barreling toward Edgewood Avenue. One of its wheels sank into a pothole and bounced up noisily.
Barlowe had started up the walkway, when a familiar raspy voice floated his way.
âHey dere, young man!â
He turned and saw Mr. Smith, his elderly neighbor from across the street. Mr. Smith and his wife, Zelda, were both retirees who had lived in the Old Fourth Ward for thirty years. A short, bald, bow-spined man with banjo eyes, Mr. Smith was out front, leaning under the open hood of his broken-down Chevrolet. It was an old convertible with a tattered rag top that had been peeling back like dead skin on a shedding snake.
That rusty car hadnât moved in years. Still, he spent his spare time out there with a huge red toolbox, tinkering with the thing.
âHow you doin taday?â he asked cheerily as Barlowe approached.
âIâm fine, Mr. Smith. Workin hard, thas all.â
âAw, donât worry bout that, son. Hard work ainât never kilt nobody.â Then he reconsidered. âWell, not lately, no way.â
Mr. Smith liked Barlowe. He didnât care much for that fish-eyed Tyrone, but he liked Barlowe a lot. He liked that Barlowe read newspapers and history books and seemed to search into the heart of things.
Barlowe liked Mr. Smith, too, mostly for the same reasons. He liked him so much, in fact, that he used variations of Mr. Smithâs house address, 1023, for good luck when he played the numbers.
âMr. Smith,â said Barlowe, âI gotta idea.â
âA idea?â The old man leaned over his toolbox and exchanged a wrench for a pair of pliers.
âWe should do somethin bout them heavy trucks comin through.â
âSomethin like whut? Whut you gon do?â
âWe should petition the city to ban em from takin shortcuts through here. Maybe I could call that councilman, Cliff Barnes.â
Mr. Smith stood up straight. âUh-huh. You go right head, and see what happens.â
âWhat you think will happen?â
âAbslutely nothin. When you call Barnes, heâll check his books to see how much money niggers out chere give to his last campaign. And thatâll be the end a that.â
âNooo,â said Barlowe. âWe gotta hound em. We gotta bring pressure, like white folks do.â
âOkay, Mr. Pressure. You go right head. Come back and lemme know how it went.â
As usual, the talk turned to sports. There was a big boxing match coming up. They bet a six-pack on the fight. While they talked, a white man came strolling up the walk. Dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops, he led an expensive-looking dog on a leash.
Barlowe and Mr. Smith stopped talking and gazed at the troubling sight. Lately there had been rumors, all kinds of wild rumors, about them coming through the neighborhood, snooping around for who knows what.
The white man stopped at the edge of Mr. Smithâs