She had scarcely opened her mouth.

He continued: “You’re gonna stuff their gullets with about half that food you got stashed away in there, then we’ll put ‘em to bed with a bottle o’ whisky apiece. Keep still. In the morning, I want you to give ‘em some of that junk under the tree there. And if you betray by an eyelash that they’re anything less than welcome in Ralph Williams’ house, I’ll beat your rear end till it’s black and blue.”

Annabel assumed a profound stillness of body and face. But Ralph, as he returned to the front door, seemed to have shed a dozen years. There was spring in his step and color in his cheeks. He swung the door open wide.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with a full gesture of the arm, “the pleasures of my humble house.” To Clinton and Annabel, he said: “These three kings will pause here tonight. Tomorrow they will continue the journey to Bethlehem.”

Now three peculiar men entered the room. Their appearances made it immediately apparent that Ralph had found them on that part of Euclid Avenue known as skid row. The first to enter was a tiny man of perhaps thirty-five; he clutched his hat in both hands and with a few quick and nervous movements of his birdlike eyes, studied the room suspiciously. The second, middle-aged, round-shouldered, seemed to retreat even as he advanced; he seemed intent on pleasing everyone, and bowed obsequiously in all directions. These two were followed by a jolly old wreckage of seventy, white stubble on his chin, a bright red baseball cap tucked under his arm; one leg seemed shorter than the other as he rolled vigorously into the room, hand outstretched, approaching Annabel. His toothless mouth agape with merriment, he had the air of some crazy politician campaigning in a ghost town. But his speech was impossible to understand: there were no teeth and too much spittle.

Annabel stood stiff as a board as the merry old gentleman smothered her hand in both of his own, and paid his gibberish compliments to the house and to its mistress. Her face was a terrible thing to behold: she smiled graciously, but in a frozen manner that would turn blood into ice.

“Ah bow t’de gwowne, putty wady, for dis kiness of de warmf of y’housh an’ harf.” He made a regular speech, gesturing about the room as he spoke. One could only guess at what he might be saying, but he had all the confidence of a golden-throated orator. “Ah shank you, fom de bottom mishole,” he concluded. Then he stepped back and folded his hands, resting them on his protruding stomach.

Annabel’s voice was not her own when she said: “Won’t you be seated, gentlemen?” It was the voice of some animal, pained and stricken, who could manage only one note. “Ralph? Would you excuse yourself? And help me prepare a drink for your friends?”

Annabel left the room. Then Ralph excused himself and followed her into the kitchen. Clinton remained in the living room until the two younger men had seated themselves uncomfortably on the edge of the couch. He glanced at the old politician, who had settled himself happily in an overstuffed chair. When their eyes met, the old man giggled wickedly and winked at him; it was as if they were all gathered here, Clinton included, to partake in some forbidden bacchanalian rites.