I flip open my wallet and show him my PI license. “Miles Landry. I’d like to talk to you about the night that made you famous.”
“You a cop?”
“Private eye.”
He still looks like a skittish animal contemplating fight or flight, so I say, “Relax, buddy. You ever hear of a tong hiring a white detective?”
He runs the back of his hand under his nose, then opens the screen door and reaches inside. I very conspicuously slide my right hand into my jacket like I’m about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance . . . or draw heat. His hand emerges holding a gray sweatshirt. The pockets don’t look heavy. He puts it on, knowing that his cigarette break is going to run longer than usual, but the sweatshirt is a good sign: he’s curious enough to at least want to know my deal. He lights another and tries to
