“Politics as usual. So far, it hasn’t filtered down to the villages,” Koestler said. “It’s a lot safer here than in Newark, New Jersey, I would imagine.”

Suddenly the men fell silent and examined their cards. Swarms of insects buzzed the gazebo in successive waves.

Despite the mosquito coils, the insects attacked ferociously. Hartman was the first to hop up, and he moved with a quickness that startled the others. With no warning, he roughly grabbed Indiana’s head in the crook of his muscular forearm and savagely rubbed his knuckles over the top of the young doctor’s head. His feet shuffled adroitly, like those of a fat but graceful tap dancer, as he yanked the doctor in various directions, never letting him set himself for balance. Hartman ran his knuckles back and forth over the young man’s crew cut, crying, “Haji Baba! Hey, hey! Haji Baba! Hey, hey!”

“Ouch, goddamn!” Indiana shouted. He was tall, with a basketball-player’s build, and he finally wrested himself out of Hartman’s powerful grip. He stood his ground, assuming a boxer’s pose. Both he and Hartman were suddenly drenched with sweat. “You fucker! Shit!”

Hartman threw his hands in the air, his palms open in a gesture of peace. As soon as Indiana dropped his guard, Hartman waded in throwing roundhouse punches. One of these connected, and a chip of tooth pankled off a can of Coke Classic on the table. Indiana pulled Hartman forward, going with the older man’s momentum. At the same time, he kicked Hartman’s feet out from under him, and the two men rolled off the gazebo, and Indiana rose astride Hartman’s broad back like a cowboy. Indiana had Hartman’s arm pulled up in a chicken wing with one hand while he felt for his missing front tooth with the other.

“You son of a bitch!” Indiana said. “Fat bastard.” He pounded Hartman’s large ears with the meaty side of his fist. “I’ll show you who’s a faggot. How do you like it?”

He continued to cuff the pilot and cranked the arm up higher until Hartman cried, “Oh God, stop!”

“Had enough? Had enough?”

“God, yes. God, yes. I give!”

Indiana released his grip and got up. He was covered with black dirt. He was studying an abrasion on his knee when Hartman leaped atop him pickaback and began clawing at his face.

Hartman cried, “Son-of-a-bitch, I’ll kill you!” Once again the two men began rolling about in the dirt. This time Hartman emerged on top, and his punches rained down on the younger man until Chicago and Koestler each snatched him by one of his arms and dragged him off and flung him back into his chair. He started to get up, but Koestler shoved him back down with both hands and then pointed a finger in his face.

“You’re drunk. Knock this shit off immediately!”