All the time he watched the kid’s eyes, enjoying the reaction there but not finding it as satisfying as he had hoped. “Sit down,” he said. “We’ve got to go over the rules.”

“I can do rules,” he spit back, leaning against the sink, and Rudd, Jill, and most of all the busboy knew that he had won the round.

“Fine.” He took a position against a stove opposite the busboy. “Get me some more coffee, Jill.” Then looking at her: “Half coffee, half whiskey.” Back to the busboy: “My Hispanic brother and I need to have a chat.”

“You don’t even know what race I am,” said the kid derisively after Jill had left the room.

“Sure I do. Not white. Now let’s get down to business.”

The busboy listened though he could have guessed most of what he heard. First he was told that if he was planning to leave he should leave now. As Rudd was explaining the importance of him declaring his loyalties the busboy was thinking how mad he was at himself for losing his temper earlier, for falling out of character in front of this white man, now babbling about being able to provide protection. Food would be inventoried and rationed. More detailed plans regarding the food would be developed soon. The busboy was not to drink any of the liquor. The television stayed in the front room at all times. The woman brought the coffee in and handed it to the man. Rudd was in charge, but the busboy should be prepared to do whatever was asked of him because they were all in this together. Rudd and the other men would be happy to pay him for his time here if he chose to stay. At this he almost laughed as he had already hidden the lunch receipts in a safe place. Rudd babbled on. The busboy knew he couldn’t get back to his neighborhood now, not after the things he’d seen on the TV last night. The riot would end in a few days, and he’d be in much better shape if he were discovered by the National Guard in the company of these white men. Rudd was sorry about the Paco thing. When he finally got home he could always claim they’d made him stay. He’d have the bag from yesterday’s lunch plus whatever money these guys gave him to show his people about his loyalties. The man, Rudd, drained his coffee mug and said something about being glad they’d reached an understanding. The busboy thought they’d always had one.

By the time Rudd returned to the front room everyone was awake except Osmond and pretty much gathered at the back end of the bar, clustered near the coffee pots. Jill was a natural den mother, which was probably for the best, and Osmond’s steady snoring rang not so much in protest of the morning as refusal to be excluded from the conversation. Desultory gunfire pierced the morning outside as if so many lawnmower jockeys and leaf-blower-wielding immigrants had merely exchanged their noisemakers. The busboy came in carrying the television back to what would become its permanent location, and though Rudd hoped for the kid’s sake he wouldn’t be looking too sheepish in front of everybody, he was nonetheless angered when their eyes locked and the kid’s expression was one of utter detachment, if one were to give him the benefit of the doubt that is.

“So how do you like Tony’s?” said Rudd, sidling up to and putting his arm around Fenton. Clubstyle. Boys at Hollydale. … Maybe not here and now, he thought, dropping his arm.

Fenton smiled politely at the sarcasm.