I went to a simple, rather shabby house in South Central.

“Come in!” in a guttural voice after I knocked. The living room was sparsely furnished and, sitting at the plain wooden table, was Jerry, the blackest man I’ve ever seen – one of those almost blue-black skins. I introduced myself and sat down at the table. He didn’t really respond except to look hungrily at the meal I had brought.

I gave him the bag, he took out and opened the containers and started eating, in no particular order (ignoring the salad-entrée-dessert components). He was much more intent on the food than on me and answered my ritual questions through mouthfuls of food.

After I had got through the business part I asked, “You live here alone?”

Without looking up “Yeah”

“When did you get out of jail?”

“Three days ago”

“What were you in for?”

“Murder one”.

He still did not look up. I looked around the room, empty except for Jerry, me and a few bits of furniture. Deepest South central and nobody knew I was here.

“Murder one, huh? Well…….I think I’ve just about finished all I need to do here. So, be sure to call us if you need any more help or information. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yeah”.

As I opened the front door I looked back at Jerry as he hunched over the table, still hungrily scooping in the remains of the meal. I closed the door quietly behind me.