“Park in there, bo,” said Derek.

“Next to the Camaro?” I said, indicating a sharp blue muscle car with broad white stripes on the hood.

“That’s the one,” he said. “And whatever you do, on fear of your life, don’t scratch it.”

I parked next to the Camaro. Derek climbed out of my car, and so did I.

“What now?” I said.

“Get in,” he said, pulling open the Camaro’s passenger door.

“I only want to talk to him, Derek. The hell with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. What about a phone call or something?”

“You said you just got out of the Roundhouse, right?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And you think they been following you.”

“That’s right.”

“And they might be following you now.”

“Okay, I get you. I’ll get in the Camaro.”

I was about to slide into the front seat when Derek leaned down and pulled a lever, which collapsed the front seat forward. “In the back, bo.”

“I’m the client.”

“The detective is always in front. That’s the first thing they teach you in detective school.”

“You haven’t gone to detective school.”

“What does that matter?”

I thought about that for a moment and then climbed into the back. Derek released the seat, slid into it, and closed the door. Together we waited. And waited. Waited until I saw the belt buckle of a giant in the side window. Then the giant leaned down to look in the car. Huge shoulders, tattooed arms, porkpie hat.

Antoine.

“You don’t follow no hint, now, do you?” said Antoine before he opened the door and climbed into the car. He turned around and leaned menacingly over the bucket seat. “What the blazes I tell you, mon?”

“To leave it alone,” I said. “But I can’t, not anymore. I need to talk to Jamison.”

“You were being followed, for sure.”

“I figured.”

“Same Johnny Crow who came to Barnabas’s place. What he want?”

“He wants me. Wants to slam me in jail for the rest of my life.”

“And that is our problem why?”

“Because I still owe Derek money.”

“He’s got a point there,” said Derek. “He does owe me money. More after today.”

“I been given the all-okay for you to see that bwoy. And I got something myself I need be telling him, too. But no calls, no numbers. We’ll meet him in person. I’ll take you.”

“You will? That’s actually nice of you, Antoine.”

“Nothing nice about it,” said Antoine, turning around to face forward.

“Remember our arrangement?” said Derek. “Forty an hour?”

“It was thirty.”

“It was, but not no more. This be dangerous now, running from cops, dealing with fugitives. I’ve had to jack the rates. Forty an hour.”

“Okay.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Right.”

“Well, Antoine here, right now he’s the expense.”

“I get the feeling this is going to be a costly trip. Where are we going?”

“You hungry, mon?” said Antoine.

“Not really.”

“It don’t matter,” he said as he fired the ignition. “You still buying the breakfast. I know a wan irie place. You like grits?”

“No.”

“You’ll be liking these.”

It was a long drive for a plate of grits, but Antoine was right. I did like them, lighter than I would expect, thick with butter. And I liked the biscuits with gravy and the spiced stewed apples that went along with my two eggs over. The place was narrow and old, built of stone, with open ductwork on the ceiling, steam sweating off the windows, and hot sauce on the tables. There were four of us sitting at a small booth with a rickety Formica table between us, the table laden with plates smeared with grease and filled with our breakfasts.

The waitress in her maroon apron ambled over with a pot. “You boys want more coffee?”

“Sure we do,” said Derek. “Hey, this place is famous, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t you see the sign outside?”

“I did, yes, but just because the sign says it, don’t mean it’s so.”

“Look around,” she said, pointing at the photographs that ringed the diner. “We get politicians here, singers, movie stars.”

“And now, best of all, you got Derek,” he said.

“Who is Derek?”

“You’re talking to him.”

“Now, ain’t that special?” said the waitress as she poured coffee into one of the purple plastic coffee cups. “Tell the Post to hold the presses.”

“You want to take my picture, put it up with the others?” said Derek. “I’ll sign it and everything.”

“Your face is going to have to stay right where it is, honey,” she said. “We can’t be scaring the customers’ appetites. You boys need anything else, just give me a holler.”

“She wants me,” said Derek after the waitress had left.

Antoine shook his head and turned to Jamison, who was sitting quietly beside him. “When you coming back, bwoy?”

“Don’t know,” said Jamison. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a T-shirt, more skateboarder than gangster. In the bright lights of the Florida Avenue Grill, he seemed younger than I had remembered. “My aunt’s been bugging me to come down and live with her for a while. And I didn’t like the cops sniffing for me like that.”

“Take your time,” said Antoine, “but J.T. wanted me a tell you them dues is up.”

“I’m not paying my dues, me having to run like that.”

“He says you still under his right arm, so you got to still be paying.”

“Hell if I’m paying. Tell him I’m out. My aunt wants to put me in the school down here. Says it’s a pretty good school, they got computers and stuff.”

“J.T. don’t want to hear about school.”

“I knew something like this was going down. That’s why I met you here and not at my aunt’s house.” He balled up a napkin, threw it atop his eggs, stood. “You’re a message boy now, Antoine? After all the crap you been blowing out your ass, that’s what you become? Well, here’s a message back to J.T. Tell him I’m out. Tell him if I’m paying dues, I’m paying them local, and he’ll have to fight through the protection I got wrapped down here to get to me.”

“Well, lookie this,” said Antoine, a smile breaking out. “Bwoy’s all grown up. Sit down and finish them eggs. Victor’s got some questions.”

“What are you going to tell J.T.?”

“I’ll tell him what you say. That you off to school and giving up the business. Don’t make a liar of me, now, or it won’t be J.T. you be worrying about.”

Jamison bobbed his head a bit and then sat down again. He took the napkin off his food, shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “All right,” he said to me, “what the hell do you want to know?”

“Remember the woman whose picture I showed you? The one who you said was buying heroin from you?”

“Course I remember. That’s the reason I was chased down to here in the first place.”

“So the question I have, Jamison, is this. Do you have any idea who she was buying it for?”

He looked at me for a moment, then down at his eggs.

“Go ahead and tell the mon,” said Antoine.

“Another one of my customers,” said Jamison. “A pretty boy with a ferocious habit. Whenever she came, she bought some for him and paid what he owed. We would sell him on credit whatever he wanted, because she was always good for it.”

“Do you have a name?” I said.

“We called him Sweets,” said Jamison, “because of the way he looked, but that wasn’t his real name.”

“What was his real name?”

“Terry,” said Jamison. “His name was Terry.”