Based on his demeanor and the fact that he’s already made it twenty strides down the sidewalk without bothering to shut or lock the door behind him, the news isn’t positive.I pull on the brass knob, hear the lock click behind me, and hurry after Shug. He’s turned on East Barbour Street. I debate kicking off both heels and sprinting after him, but decide that at least a dozen unwritten Southern rules of decorum would frown on that transgression.He screeches to a stop in front of the mayor’s office, taking the steps two at a time. I hang back and catch my breath, clapping a hand to my chest. A hunched man with a stubby cigar in his mouth eyeballs me. He’s waiting, too, but not panting like a greyhound that’s just finished the race of his short life. I realize that it’s Stump from the Citgo.“Runnin’ after Mr. Shug Jordan, eh?” Stump plucks the cigar from between his teeth and rolls it between two fingers. He’s leaning on a crude walking stick or cane, hand-carved.My lips part to offer a smart retort, but I clamp them back together.
