“Yes, sir,” said a young man in a black suit, stepping up to meet Baker as he walked through the door.
“I’m havin lunch with somebody. I got an appointment with Mr. Peter Whitten.”
“Right this way, sir.” The man made an elaborate movement with his hands and swiveled his narrow hips. The word prey flashed in Baker’s mind, but here was not the place to be scheming, and he followed the young man through the maze of tables, along the granite-top bar, where a solid-built dude in a leather blazer sat, eye-fucking him as he passed. Even the brothers down here took him for ghetto, thought Baker. Well, fuck them, too.
Peter Whitten was waiting at a two-top covered with a white tablecloth, close to the bar. Everything about him, from the natural drape of his suit to the carefully cut, just-over-the-ear hairstyle, said money. His face was neither friendly nor confrontational, and all of his features were straight. His hair was silver and blond, his eyes a light blue. Like an actor cast as the wealthy father on a soap opera, he was handsome in a predictable way. He didn’t get up but stretched out his hand as Baker arrived.
“Mr. Baker?”
“It is me,” said Baker, taking his hand and giving a smile. “Mr. Whitten, right?”
“Have a seat.”
The young man had pulled his chair out, and Baker dropped into it and maneuvered his legs under the table. Baker touched the silverware before him, moved it a little, and almost at once another man in a tux was beside the table, setting down a menu and asking Baker if he would like something to drink.
“Would you care for a beer or a cocktail?” said Whitten helpfully.
Baker looked at Whitten’s glass.
“I’ll just have water,” said Baker.
“Flat or sparkling?” said the waiter.
“Regular water,” said Baker.
The waiter drifted. Baker opened the menu, looking to do something with his hands, not knowing how to start the conversation. He was aware of Whitten staring at him as his eyes scanned the menu. Prima piatti, insalata, pasta e risotto, secondi piatti. How’d they expect an American to know what to order in this piece? Fagottini… Baker knew there was something he didn’t like about this restaurant.
“Do you need some help with the menu?” said Whitten. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something like a smile in his eyes.
Baker had made an error. He shouldn’t have met Whitten here. It was wrong, arrogant even, for him to presume he could play on the man’s home court.
“I’m all right,” said Baker. “It all looks so good. I just need some time.”
“Maybe we better talk first,” said Whitten, folding his hands on the table, at peace in his world.
Baker closed the menu and laid it down. “Okay. You read the letter, so there’s no mystery as to what this is about.”
“Yes.”
“I’m lookin for a little help, Mr. Whitten.”
Whitten stared at him.
“I feel like I got some, uh, reparations comin to me, if you know what I mean. Since that day you and your friends drove into our neighborhood, my life has been hard. It’s not like I haven’t tried to make it, either. I’m not a bad person. I have a job.”
“What do you want?”
“Some compensation for what you and your friends did. I think that’s fair. I’m not tryin to break the bank or nothing like that. I mean, look at you; obviously you’ve done good in life. You sure can spare it.”
“Spare what?”
“Huh?”
“How much do you want?”
“I was thinking, you know, fifty thousand dollars would be about right. That would do it. A good foundation for me to build somethin on. Get me back on the track that I would have been on from the beginning, if you and your friends hadn’t come into our world.”
“And what would you do if I said no?”
Baker’s face felt flushed. The waiter poured him water from a pitcher, and Baker drank a long swig at once.
“Are we ready to order?” said the waiter.
“We ain’t ready just yet,” snapped Baker.
The waiter looked at Whitten, who shook his head slightly, telling him that everything was all right and that he should leave.
When the waiter was gone, Baker allowed his emotions to subside.
“Don’t take me wrong,” said Baker.
“No?”
“We’re just having a conversation here. I’m asking you, gentleman to gentleman, for some help.”
“Your letter said something about damage to my reputation.”
“That wasn’t a threat. That was just, you know, an incentive for you to contribute. I was just referring to… Look, you wouldn’t want those people at your law firm knowing about your past, would you? You don’t want those kids you reach out to, those black kids you help, to know what you did. Do you?”
“They already know,” said Whitten. “All of them. They know because I’ve told them about it, many times. It’s an element in my journey. I want the kids to know that there are second acts in American lives. That they can make mistakes, but it’s not the end. They can do dumb things and still have success, make a positive contribution to society. I think it’s important that they know.”
“Oh, you do.”
Baker felt his mouth turn up in a smile. The kind he used to punk anyone who had a dream about stepping to him. The kind that usually gave men pause. But Whitten’s expression did not change.
“Yes, I do,” said Whitten. “I believe in second chances. Which is why I agreed to meet with you today. Because I do know that you’ve had a hard life.”
“You looked into my life, huh.”
“My associate Mr. Coates did. Mr. Coates is a private detective my firm uses in various capacities. He’s sitting right behind you. He’s the fellow wearing the black leather jacket, at the bar.”
Baker did not turn his head. He knew who the man was.
“You’re on parole right now, Mr. Baker. Do you know how severely you’d be violated for attempting to commit extortion and blackmail? I have all the ammunition to put you on the road back to prison, immediately. I recorded our conversation yesterday, in which you stated that it was you who sent me the letter. It may or may not be admissible as evidence in court, but nevertheless the tape is in my possession. I have the letter and the envelope, which most likely hold your fingerprints. The printer you used can probably be traced to your residence.”
“So?”
“I’m giving you a break. Walk out of here right now, quietly, and do not pursue this further. Don’t ever contact me in any way again. Don’t come near my house or my place of business. If you do, I’ll take swift and decisive action.”
“Fancy man with your words.” Baker’s voice was soft and controlled. “Tryin to act like you doing me a favor.”
“Mr. Baker, consider very carefully what you say and do here. For your own sake.”
“Motherfucker.”
“We’re done.”
“Coward-ass bitch. Throwin pie out a car window and running your bitch ass away. Leavin your friends behind.”
Whitten’s face grew pale. His fingers were now tightly laced together. “Do something right. Be smart and go.”
Baker got up carefully from the table, so as not to spill his water or rattle the silverware. He walked past the man in the black leather jacket and did not look his way. He did not want to see the hint of a smile or victory because he would then be tempted to steal the man in the face. He wasn’t about to get violated for something cheap like that. Because he wasn’t ready to go back to the joint. He wasn’t done.
He stepped around some folks who were grouped by the host stand, mindful not to make physical contact, and he pushed on the front door and went outside.
His mistake had been to try and reason with Whitten. If this life had taught him something, it was to take from the weak. That the things he wanted could only be got through intimidation and force.