'Good morning,' she said.
'Good morning.'
I introduced her to the other men.
Bernard J. Fortunato said, 'I got coffee. You want some?'
'Yes, thank you,' Lou said. 'That would be lovely.'
Bernard hustled off as if he were going for the Holy Grail. Lou stood on the porch and looked at us.
'There aren't very many of you,' she said.
'But what there is is cherce,' Hawk said.
'Cherce?'
'Choice,' I said. 'It's a line Spencer Tracy used about Katherine Hepburn.'
'Oh.'
Lou still looked at us.
'You do look dangerous,' she said.
'Senorita,' Chollo said, 'that is because, as we say in my country, we are dangerous.'
'What is your country?' Lou said.
Chollo grinned at her.
'Los Angeles,' he said.
Lou leaned her admirable little butt on the railing of the porch. Bernard came back and gave her coffee. She thanked him and held the mug in both hands and sipped. Behind her a Ford Expedition pulled into the yard and a Dodge Van, and a big Chrysler Sedan. Our employers got out, warily, as if it might be an ambush, and gathered uneasily in front of the porch. J. George was there on the left looking prosperous and affable.
In fact, all four of them looked prosperous, and they bore with them the aroma of self-satisfaction that prosperity brings. The mayor stood next to J. George, then Barnes the lawyer and Brown the banker. I stood beside Lou Buckman on the top step of the porch facing them. My posse was ranged along the back wall of the porch, seated, most of them teetering their chairs back so that the front legs cleared the floor.
I looked down at the group. I felt a little like Mussolini. Maybe I should have folded my arms.
'Me you know,' I said. 'From my right, Hawk, Vinnie Morris, Chollo, Bobby Horse, Tedy Sapp and Bernard J. Fortunato.'
The quartet looked as if they thought that The Preacher and his crew might be preferable. Luther Barnes spoke first.
'Could we have full names, please?' he said.
'Certainly,' I said. 'Hawk, your full name, please?'
'Hawk.'
'Thank you. Chollo?'
'Chollo.'
'Thank you.'
Barnes was not amused.
'I just think we have a right to know who we're paying all this money to,' he said.
'You're paying it to me,' I said.
Roscoe, wearing a panama hat, probably felt the need to say something official sounding.
'I feel there should be some legal foundation for this venture,' he said.
I stared at him.
'This group has no legal foundation. It's a group of professional thugs, hired by you.'
The group was quiet.
Then Henry Brown said, 'I'm a businessman, and, a goddamned good one. In all the years of business I never hired a man I didn't know his background.'
'Good for you,' I said.
'Damn it,' he said, 'that's no answer.'
Sitting on the porch, Chollo took out a handgun and casually shot a small branch off a tree to my right. He did it again, and then again, chopping the branch back further with each shot.
'I am a simple peasant, senor,' Chollo said in his stage Mexican accent. 'That is all I have for background.'
The gunshots lingered, resonating in the hard dry heat. Our employers looked at the tree limb. When they looked back at Chollo the gun was out of sight. Chollo smiled pleasantly. No one had anything to say for a time until the successful businessman spoke again, somewhat more softly.
'They won't know we're involved, will they?'
