They told Psycho to be ready at seven-thirty the next morning. Sykes said, “My knee be hurtin’n, my foot, too, where the honky muhfuh step on me.” Mr. George knew Sykes was lying. Seated next to him in the rear seat, he yawned and said, “Put ice on ‘em, you be fine.” Sykes got out of the BMW and started for the door, but then returned. He pursed his lips and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together like a tailor feeling fine wool. Sykes said, “Need some more you-know.” Toby, the driver, said, “We gave you two hundred before the tournament.” “My awntie a big eater. She don’t get it this way, she get it robbin you house.” Seth forked over another hundred. “Stretch it.” Sykes turned away, and spoke as if he were talking to a prison guard. “Stretch some a this,” and walked toward the house. Seth said, “I don’t get it. No matter how much we do for him, nothing makes him happy.” Mr. George said, “Sykes not be happy if he’as white.” Mr. George pulled down the armrest and settled into the buttery leather of the backseat.
