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I thought of the young men pinned to the corkboard in his office. He was trying to compliment me.

“I’ll be here at nine,” I lied.

The old man smiled, shook my hand, and turned away.

Chester was standing on the curb watching as his henchmen drove off in the dark Ford. He kept an eye on them until they had driven out of sight and then went back into his empty space.

I was right behind him.

19.

His left foot crossed the threshold, and mine did too. He felt my presence, but before he could respond I hit him in the back of the head with my .45. He went down on one knee and I hit him again—hard.

While he floundered on the green-and-black linoleum I did a cursory body search, coming up with a small-caliber pistol. Then I pulled the ceiling-to-floor curtains across the picture window and flipped the wall switch for the overhead fluorescent lighting.

Chester was holding the back of his head with one hand while trying to push himself up with the other. He was moving his lower jaw around as though he’d been hit there.

“Stay down,” I told him.

He stopped moving, and looked up to see me straddling one of the metal folding chairs. The .45 was in my hand, pointed at his forehead.

He was up on one elbow and confused, but when he shrugged, maybe a preparation to rise, I pulled back the hammer on the gun.

The fear factor of a cocking hammer is the real advantage of a six-shooter.

He stopped moving, but his eyes were hard at work.

He was long, strong, and considering his chances of turning the tables from a prone position.

“You do and I’ll shoot you in the knee,” I said, “still ask my questions, then walk out the back door, leaving you a cripple for life.”

“What you want, man?”

“You ran a woman named Nathali Malcolm some years back.”

His face twisted, trying to show without telltale words that he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Oh?” I mocked. “Did I say that I will shoot the other knee if I’m not happy with your answers?”

“What you mean, ran?”

“If you tryin’ to wait until somebody comes to the door,” I said, “I will shoot you in the face and take my chances with the rest.”

“That was a long time ago,” he complained.

“I’m askin’ right now. I’m not gonna do it again.”

“I haven’t seen Tatty since she got busted years ago.”

“You were both arrested, but they let you off,” I said. “You had twenty pounds of cocaine in the trunk’a your car and they didn’t even book you.”

“Who are you?” Chester Murray asked.

“Who was the last cop you talked to after they arrested you?”

“That was over ten years ago, brother. How you expect me to remember the last cop or the first?”

I stood up, my lips twisting in the anticipation of pain.