Win raised an eyebrow. “Youths?”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Yes, I’d say.”

They headed up a stoop that looked like the one on Sesame Street. A man poked through a nearby garbage can, but he looked nothing like Oscar the Grouch. Myron knocked on the door. Win started with the eyes, the gliding movement, taking it all in. The softballers and barbecuers across the street were still staring. They did not seem pleased with what they saw.

Myron knocked again.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called.

“My name is Myron Bolitar. This is Win Lockwood. We’d like to see Clay Jackson if he’s available.”

“Could you hold on a second?”

They held on for at least a full minute. Then they heard a chain rattle. The knob turned, and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was black and maybe forty years old. Her smile kept flickering like one of those neon Budweiser signs in the tavern windows. “I’m Clay’s mother,” she said. “Please come in.”

They followed her inside. Something good was cooking on the stove. An old air-conditioning unit roared like a DC-10, but it worked. The coolness was most welcome, though short-lived. Clay’s mother quickly hustled them through a narrow corridor and back out the kitchen door. They were outside again, in the backyard now.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked. She had to yell over the sounds of traffic.

Myron looked at Win. Win was frowning. Myron said, “No, thank you.”

“Okay.” The smile flickered faster now, almost like a disco strobe light. “Let me just go get Clay. I’ll be right back.” The screen door slammed shut.

They were alone outside. The yard was tiny. There were flower boxes bursting with colors and two large bushes that were dying. Myron moved to the fence and looked down at Route 280. The four-lane highway was moving briskly. Car fumes drifted slowly in this humidity, hanging there, not dissipating; when Myron swallowed, he could actually taste them.

“This isn’t good,” Win said.

Myron nodded. Two white men show up at your house. You don’t know either one. You don’t ask for ID. You just show them in and leave them out back. Something was definitely not right here.

“Let’s just see how it plays out,” Myron said.

It did not take long. Eight large men came from three different directions. Two burst through the back door. Three circled in from the right side of the house. Three more from the left. They all carried aluminum baseball bats and let’s-kick-some-ass scowls. They fanned out, encircling the yard. Myron felt his pulse race. Win folded his arms; only his eyes moved.

These were not street punks or members of a gang. They were the softball players from across the street, grown men with bodies hardened by daily labor—dockworkers and truck loaders and the like. Some held their bats in a ready-to-swing position. Others rested them on their shoulders. Still others bounced them gently against their legs, like Joe Don Baker in Walking Tall.

Myron squinted into the sun. “You guys finish your game?” he asked.

The biggest man stepped forward. He had an enormous iron-cauldron gut, calloused hands, and the muscular yet unchiseled arms of someone who could crush Nautilus equipment like so many Styrofoam cups. His Nike baseball cap was set on the largest size, but it still fitted him like a yarmulke. His T-shirt had a Reebok logo. Nike cap, Reebok T-shirt. Confusing brand loyalties.

“Game is just beginning, fool.”

Myron looked at Win. Win said, “Decent deliver, but the line lacked originality. Plus, tagging the word fool on the end—that seemed forced. I’ll have to give him a thumbs-down, but I look forward to his next work.”

The eight men looped around Myron and Win. Nike/Reebok, the obvious leader, gestured with the baseball bat. “Hey, Wonder bread, get your ass over here.”

Win looked at Myron. Myron said, “I think he means you.”

“Must be because I help build strong bodies in twelve ways.” Then Win smiled, and Myron felt his heart stutter. People always did that. They always homed in on Win. At five-ten Win was a half foot shorter than Myron. But it was more than that. The blond, pale-faced, blue-veined, china-boned exterior brought out the worst in people. Win appeared soft, unlabored, sheltered—the kind of guy you hit and he shatters like cheap porcelain. Easy prey. Everyone likes easy prey.

Win stepped toward Nike/Reebok. He arched an eyebrow and gave him his best Lurch. “You rang?”

“What’s your name, Wonder bread?”

“Thurgood Marshall,” Win said.

That reply didn’t sit well with the crowd. Murmurs began. “You making a racist crack?”

“As opposed to, say, calling someone Wonder bread?”

Win glanced at Myron and gave him a thumbs-up. Myron returned the gesture. If this were a school debate, Win would be up a point.

“You a cop, Thurgood?”

Win frowned. “In this suit?” He pulled at his own lapels. “Puleeze.”

“So what do you want here?”

“We wish to speak with one Clay Jackson.”

“What about?”

“Solar energy and its role in the twenty-first century.”

Nike/Reebok checked his troops. The troops tightened the noose. Myron felt a rushing in his ears. He kept his eyes on Win and waited.

“Seems to me,” the leader continued, “that you white boys are here to hurt Clay again.” Moving closer. Eye to eye. “Seems to me that we have the right to use lethal force to protect him. That right, fellas?”

The troops grunted their agreement, raising their bats.

Win’s move was sudden and unexpected. He simply reached out and snatched the bat away from Nike/Reebok. The big man’s mouth formed an O of surprise. He stared at his hands as though he expected the bat to rematerialize at any moment. It wouldn’t. Win chucked the bat into the corner of the yard.

Then Win beckoned the big man forward. “Care to tango, pumpernickel bread?”

Myron said, “Win.”

But Win kept his eyes on his opponent. “I’m waiting.”

Nike/Reebok grinned. Then he rubbed his hands together and wet his lips. “He’s all mine, fellas.”

Yep, easy prey.

The big man lunged forward like a Frankenstein monster, his thick fingers reaching for Win’s neck. Win remained motionless until the last possible moment. Then he darted inside, his fingertips pressed together, transforming his hand into something of a spear. The fingertips struck deep and quick at the big man’s larynx, the movement like a bird doing a fast peck. A gagging sound not unlike a dental sucking machine forced its way out the big man’s mouth; his hands instinctively flew up to his throat. Win ducked low and whipped his foot around. The heel swept Nike/Reebok’s legs. The big man flipped midair and landed on the back of his head.