“The ancient veteran, not to be confused with the ancient mariner, who at least rhymed, is buying us a round,” said the fourth SEAL slowly, looking at the others. Condley had nicknamed this man Plato because he didn’t talk very much and seemed to weigh his words when he did speak. Condley hadn’t decided whether Plato was extremely drunk or extremely smart.

“That is, if you can hang with me for one more round?”

“Hell, yeah,” said Statue. “If you’re up to it, we’re up to it.”

“Right,” said No Neck.

“I hate to take the man’s money,” said Black Goliath. “But if you feel like you gotta do it, go ahead.”

Condley stood up and walked toward the front door. Statue called to him. “Where you going? The head’s over here, man.”

“I don’t need to take a leak.”

“You buying us a drink or what?”

Condley smiled mischievously. “Don’t go away.”

The sun was white-hot, right out of hell, and the street was filled with garbage. Rotten banana peels made a stinking little pile near the curb, black in their ferment. Flies were everywhere, like smoke. A new green Mercedes was parked next to the curb. Maria had bought it from the money she made whoring and running the bar, which she now owned outright. Across the street a boom box was blaring disco music from inside an apartment. The windows and curtains of the apartment were pulled up, revealing three young women who were awakening from morning naps after a night of dancing and turning tricks for Maria. One of the girls waved automatically to Condley as she stretched away her nap. An old woman slept between two trees in the garden outside the apartment, having made a makeshift hammock out of a set of sheets. That would be Maria’s mother, who managed the apartment on behalf of her upwardly mobile, well-invested madam of a daughter. Near the tent, a small boy lay dozing on a wooden bench, as ignorant of the noise and rot and flies as a languid dog. That would be Maria’s nephew, recently arrived from the real Manila under the Immigration and Naturalization Service’s famous family-reunification plan.

Condley saw it all but took none of it in. In a way he had created the whole scene before him by enabling the ever-industrious Maria to obtain her green card. But that had been several years ago. Now it was simply a midday view of Little Manila, hardly as nice as Waikiki but a whole lot healthier than the Philippines. Sometimes it was pretty, often it was ugly, and every day it changed. So it didn’t do any good to think about it.

Finally he saw the balut vendor. Condley called to the frail, sandaled old man. “Hey, hey! Baluts! You gimme five!”