Joan H. ParkerandRobert B. Parker The lettering on the door said GALAHAD, INC. When Jamal Jones opened the door and went in, there were two white people. The woman was blond with big blue eyes and a wide mouth. Jamal stared at her for a moment. Bitchin’ body. The man was tall and had a mustache. They both smiled at him. Having entered, Jamal didn’t know what to do next. “I’m Nick West,” the man said. “This is my wife, Holly.” “Jamal Jones.” “Come in,” Holly said. “Have a seat.” Jamal sat. They looked like money to him. White money. Good clothes. Nice perfume. View of the harbor. He felt uneasy. It made him aggressive. “You ever hear of me?” he said. “I play basketball at Taft.” “You been suspended,” Nick said. Jamal had cornrows and baggy clothes and tattoos on his neck. “Tha’s a bad rap, man,”
