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about him?”
    â€œCommunist activity? Any high-profile communists visiting the SCLC?”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    â€œWhat about suspicious behavior?” Mathis asks while crossing his legs. “Behavior that might be seen as . . . unacceptable?”
    I feel the sting of embarrassment, as if it were my behavior being questioned.
    â€œNo,” I say again.
    Mathis stays silent while surveying my face. I don’t make any attempts to hide my discomfort.
    â€œListen, John,” he says, leaning in to rest his elbows on his thighs. “It’s understandable for you to be nervous. It happens a lot when you’re first getting started—I’m including myself as well. Primarily, it is important for you not to lose focus. Stay homed in on the task at hand. I’ve already expressed the confidence we have in you and your importance to us. We need to monitor any activity that can be perceived as anti-American. When we enlisted your help, we did not expect you to become a hindrance of any kind. If Gant needs you to return the money, then return it. If it means getting rid of that car, then so be it. It’s too conspicuous anyway. We—Mr. Hoover and the president—are very curious to see what he intends to do with that money.”
    â€œWe need to know that you’re a team player, John,” says Strobe.
    â€œRight,” Mathis says, moving closer and now standing above me, “a team player. But know this, John,” he says squeezing my shoulder a little too tightly, “If you drop the ball, I’ll have no problem putting you on the bench.”
    Feeling defeated after my rendezvous with the agents, I take the long way home. The thought of Gant and the money makes me queasy. I pray that Count works fast and Gant has already resigned in shame. If not, I’ll have to suffer through another morning, staring at his smirking face. I drive down Peachtree Street, moving in a straight line past the zigzagging artdeco of the picture palaces. Window down, there is no wind. The air is heavy and humid and seems to trap my anxiety in a dense cloud around me. I’ve had this feeling before, this phantom weight on my chest.
    When the polio struck, the doctors feared that the paralysis would spread to my diaphragm and the other muscles required for breathing. Had this happened, my permanent home would have been that despicable contraption called the iron lung. An airtight chamber, designed to push and pull on your chest through alternating pressure, fooling your body into believing that it is breathing on its own, reminding your brain that you cannot escape. That was the first and last time my withered leg seemed like a blessing.
    I’m encased in steel, but this Caddy gives me the kind of mobility I’ve never experienced before. I know it’s foolish, but behind this steering wheel, the barriers of class and race seem porous and decayed. At a stoplight I catch my reflection in a department store window. I smile at the idea of myself as a nomadic warrior, armed with a battering ram and attacking the crumbling walls of a citadel that houses the rumored treasures of the American dream.
    I’ve come this far. Further than anyone thought. Smarter than anyone knew. The agents will tighten the screws. So will Count. But I know I’ll come out on top. I’m already feeling better.
    I pull up to my apartment and notice a large white Buick parked across the street. I squint at the driver’s seat, but it’s vacant. I get out and place my hand on Black Beauty’s hood. I feel the warmth of her engine. I head for my apartment, but I am not alone. I look at my small porch, darkened by the awning above it. Someone is waiting for me.

I’m surprised to see Count going solo, and not accompanied by his men. Depending on the news he brings, I may be happy to see him.
    â€œLet’s have a talk,” he says, motioning to his car waiting across the