“Yes.”

“Come on, then.”

They wound their way between the smaller tables to the larger. Under a brighter yellow lantern could be seen on the table a circular track lined with bricks placed end against end. On that track Matthew caught sight of four rather huge cockroaches scrabbling toward a piece of red twine stretched between two nails, the finish line for this insectile race.

The shouts of the gamblers merged together: Go on, Goliath, go on! … Faster, Alfonzo, faster! … God blast you, Jimmy Jack, you’re as slow as Christmas! … Move your damn ass, Brisket!

And between shouts the men who were evidently the owners of such creatures were blowing puffs of air upon them with little miniature bellows, the better to speed their progress toward the red twine and the bowl of silver coins held by a thin and unsmiling man wearing a white wig decorated with the dried bodies of what might have been former champions of this sport, or simply had been swept up from the floor. On closer inspection—and much closer he did not wish to get—Matthew saw that the shiny black backs of the struggling contestants were marked by dabs of paint: red, blue, white and yellow. It seemed not even its owner could tell Goliath from Brisket without a color cue.

Matthew noted that Julian had edged up beside a tall, slim man in his fifties who had a craggy but not unhandsome face with a long aquiline nose, flowing gray hair, voluminous gray eyebrows and a mostly-white mustache and beard waxed to such a sharp point it might have served as an icepick. This man appeared to be a gentleman of the upper class out for a night among the lowly, until one got a look at the patches on the elbows of the shabby dark blue suit and the unwashed collar and cuffs of his white—had it even been truly so?—shirt. A bright purple paisley cravat tucked around the throat did serve to detract the eye from this individual’s wardrobe misfortunes, or rather it attempted to shock the eye into insensibility.

Julian leaned in closer to the man and over the noise of the race Matthew heard him say, “Hello, Britt.”

The man turned, the copper-colored eyes took Julian in and the leathery face smiled. “Julian, my boy! How good to see you! Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“There and abouts. I have some questions for you.”

“I am always at your disposal, but not now, please! Can’t you see the drama unfolding before you?”

“I see the running of the roaches.”

“You can’t see that Alfonzo is about to overtake my Goliath with less than half a track to go? Blowwwww, winds, blowwwww!” Britt called to Goliath’s owner, who was furiously manning his bellows. “Oh, you’re blowing the wind up Alfonzo’s ass!” Britt cried out as one in anguish. “Dear God, have you no mercy?”

“Which is Alfonzo?” Julian asked.

“The red-dotted demon from the pits of Hell!” Britt said. “Look at him scurry forward!”