“Hmm?” “Where are all the black people?” Harrison had discovered the source of the slight knock, but the BMW might have had worse problems if Jack had kept staring at Lina in stunned silence as he drove west on Berkeley. “What?” he coughed, focusing on the road before he jumped a curb and wrapped them around a fire hydrant. “I haven’t seen any black people on Nahant since I arrived, and I’ve only seen a few working at Coyle-Wexler,” Lina said. “Where are the black people in Boston?” Jack gripped the steering wheel a little tighter with his left hand and downshifted with his right. “They’re everywhere, Lina.” He scoured the sidewalks, feeling like an idiot as he looked for proof. “See?” He pointed to an attractive, older couple bundled in fur and leather on the opposite side of the intersection of Berkeley and Tremont Street. Lina watched as the older gentleman approached a driver, who’d double parked a sleek, shiny sedan in front of a high-rise condominium complex on Tremont.
