“So let me get this straight,” a pinched, nasally voice said through thick cigar smoke. “The ‘CFA’ in your currency stands for ‘colonial French authority?’”

“Yes.”

A Senegalese player had been invited to have coffee with a certain figure. For the sake of the integrity of our investigation, we can’t go into any further detail. We can say that the afternoon light was bright, such that it left everyone inside the diner looking backlit. Even the exterior neon with hanging cursive loops couldn’t disrupt the basic light palette. 

The man removed the stub of a cigar from his mouth again. The cigar was a gestural attachment, an accoutrement of the hand. “But you’ve been your own country since …”

“1960.”

“So let me guess this straight: you’re fucking telling me that your dollars aren’t even your own dollars? Johnny — are you hearing this?”

The men associated with the cigar holding man looked at each other confused. They were right to be confused.

“Who’s Johnny, Boss?”

“Yeah, boss. I’m Tony. That’s Joey. And —“

“I know who you two are. I’m talking about the guy in the cleaning van across the —“

And I would tell you the rest of the sentence — I really would — but I’ll hope you’ll forgive me for having to run.