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“In what way?” Max asked.

“For one thing, a scholarship from the foundation paid for part of my college education,” she said. “And another Livingston scholarship will be paying for part of my brother’s education. Biko’s starting at Columbia University this fall.”

“Hey, good for him,” said Jeff.

“The reason I was able to open this shop was because I got a no-interest loan from the foundation. Mr. Livingston was passionate about wanting to see independent African-American businesspeople thrive in Harlem.” Puma continued, “The foundation is also where Biko discovered fencing, and that sure turned his life around.”

“Oh?”

“My little brother—and where is he?—was a really smart, independent, strong-willed kid, but he didn’t have a focus for his energy. My father was long gone, and my mother worked overtime at the hospital to support us. Biko was becoming so wild and restless by the time he was twelve years old, we were really worried about how he’d turn out. I was trying to get him interested in Vodou, but it just wasn’t his thing. Anyhow, one day I dragged him to the foundation with me for a Vodou ritual he didn’t want to attend. He saw some boys with swords in the building, and that made him curious enough to go watch the class, and that was it! From that day onward, if he wasn’t at school or at home, we always knew where he was: training. My mother never had to worry about him again.” She smiled at the memory.

“That much have been a great relief to her,” Max said, “as well as a source of pride.”

She nodded as she continued, “After a couple of years, the fencing instructor went to Mr. Livingston and said that Biko had reached a stage where he really needed private instruction from a top coach. The foundation paid for that, and also paid for him to compete in tournaments—some of which he won. And because of that, part of his college education is also going to be paid for by an athletic scholarship.” Puma concluded, “So Mr. Livingston made a huge difference in our lives. And we’re not the only ones. Not by a long shot.”

“Martin contributed a lot to the world,” Jeff agreed.

“And speaking of Biko . . .” Puma picked up the telephone, pressed a speed dial button, then held the receiver up to her ear. A few moments later, she turned her head to stare at it with a puzzled expression.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Still staring at the receiver, she replied, “He answered his phone, said, ‘Not now,’ and hung up.”

“Did he sound as if he was in danger?” Max asked.

She shook her head. “No. Just distracted. And also like he doesn’t want me to call him back.”

“Then we should patiently await his arrival,” Max said. “He will no doubt explain when he gets here.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She put the receiver back in its cradle.

“What sort of man was Martin Livingston personally?” Max asked Puma, returning to the previous subject.

“He was a man of many fine qualities,” she said carefully.

He noticed how measured her response was. “But?”

She shook her head. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Especially since they may be listening.”

I asked Jeff, “Did you know him well?”

“No. He was personally involved in the foundation, but he didn’t run the day-to-day operations. I spoke to him a few times, but that was about it. He was gregarious and seemed like a nice guy.” Jeff asked Puma, “Why didn’t you like him?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him,” she said firmly.

“Ah.” His expression changed. “He put the moves on you.”

Puma scowled at him but didn’t deny it.

“What do you mean?” I asked Jeff.

“Martin had quite a reputation. Some people described him as a ladies’ man,” said Jeff. “Other people called it sexual harassment.”

“He made a pass at you?” I asked Puma with some surprise. Also some distaste. Martin Livingston would have been about forty years her senior.

Puma cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. “He was a man of, uh . . . vigorous appetites.”

“Did he try to force himself on you?” Max asked, aghast.

“Oh, no!