A Chinese man strolled toward them. A cluster of Negroes were farther down the street. They passed an opium den before reaching El Owl, which was perched between El Buck Horn Fat’s Place and El Climax Cantina. Ram was not morally opposed to such places, as Jivan was. He had accompanied Karak on his adventures in Hong Kong. In Hambelton, he had visited the back alley with his companions. His objection was not about morality—although if he had asked himself for the truth, he would admit that he did not know how to behave in such places; he was never at ease. He thought he worried about more pragmatic things. He could not waste money at the bar. He did not like the smoke of the opium dens. Regarding women, he could satisfy himself in private; he would not risk acquiring syphilis in the cribs.

El Owl had wealthy and well-known clientele, Karak explained to Ram: the mayor’s son, heads of Imperial Valley businesses, members of the Chamber of Commerce. Sometimes these gentlemen even brought their lady friends to go slumming south of the line. El Owl had the finest food, the best whiskey, the greatest number of gaming tables. The mujeres públicas had their own bedrooms there; a man never had to leave the building. He said this without shame, which fascinated and disgusted Ram at the same time. Karak had visited several times in the last two years; he was familiar with the place but the employees did not know him, with the exception of the lady whom he favored. Ram hoped he did not have to meet her. They approached the building just as it grew dark. Lamps shone through two windows in the front. Three or four Anglo men milled about the entrance. As Ram and Karak moved to the door, one of these men situated himself at the threshold.

“Whites only,” the man said, his eyes scanning Karak’s dastar and beard.

Ram looked in the window and saw about fifty Anglo men sitting around gaming tables. In the far corner, two men who appeared to be Japanese leaned into a conversation; the others did not seem to mind them. Ram wondered if he would have been stopped had he arrived alone. He wore no dastar for this man to stare at.

“No sign is here,” Karak said calmly, but Ram could feel his anger surge.

“Don’t need a sign.”

“Many times I have come here,” Karak said.

“I don’t think so,” the man said. He spat on the sidewalk.

“Aw, let ’em in, Pete,” another man said, striding up. He was smoking a cigar. Its moving tip made streaks in the dark air. Ram could not place him.

“Rules is rules,” the man said. There was liquor on his breath.

The cigar man chuckled. “You got Tom Moriyama in there!”

“That’s different.”