The man picked up the tumbler, downed the whiskey in one swallow and slammed the glass on the glistening mahogany.  He shuddered.  “That did the trick.”  His black eyes moved to the bartender, shoving his glass towards him.  “But that ain’t Jameson’s, ace.  Don’t try that again.” 

As loved as we were by the Boschmann’s, we were still a negro family and had to live in the negro part of town. This part of town was not Officer Sweeney’s beat. He being at our door to arrest my Ronnie was strictly a courtesy. At some point during all the celebration, Mr. Stanley had been murdered. Stabbed in the throat three times. Another four times in the chest and seventeen times in his crotch. I nearly dropped Caroline as Officer Sweeney gave us more details while the other cops escorted Ronnie back to our bedroom so he could get dressed before they slapped cuffs on him.