He slipped his .45 from its holster and tucked the gun into his pants, then crouched below the light and pulled Anna into the kitchen. Through the shutters over the sink, he had a view of his jeep parked by the side of the house, of a cornfield, the stalks standing in ranks, and of the Reyeses’ yard. There was no more smoke in the yard. He remembered Sophie’s nightmare and deciphered it. Sophie said she saw a devil with yellow skin and a rifle. The silver horns were captain’s bars and the devil was Augustino. He didn’t know why the captain had come, but his own mind was decided. He eased the casement window open.

“Why not wait to find out?” Anna whispered.

“Because I think I know.”

He went out the window headfirst, rolling between the jeep and the wall of the house. There were no more cars, no footsteps, but Augustino was capable of coming alone. Joe rose, his back sliding against the corner of the wall. He freed the .45 from his belt, cocked it and thumbed off the safety. As the wind brushed over the field, rows of corn dipped and rustled. Dogs were quiet. He heard nothing in the corral, nothing on the roof.

In one long step he swung around the corner of the house and through the headlights, and stuck the .45 in the face of the driver, a colored man wearing a tuxedo. The car was a Cadillac.

“Joe?” Pollack asked. His eyes opened so wide and white that they seemed to ooze. “Joe, don’t you shoot your bestest friend. Don’t do it.”

Joe let the gun drop and hang. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour?”

“Leaving you a note.” Fountain pen and paper were still frozen in Pollack’s spidery black hands. “How else can I get into communication with you working on the Hill? I can’t reach you there. All I can do is leave a note.”

“At this hour?”

“I didn’t know you’d be here. You were supposed to come by the Casa Mañana last weekend and sign those papers.”

“It’s been busy on the Hill. Sorry. If you have the papers, I’ll sign them right here.”

“I have them,” Pollack said, although he made no move to produce them now that he’d regained his composure. “Know what the buyers want to do? They want to tear down the club and build garden apartments. They have the money.”

“That’s what counts.”

Pollack sighed. “A sad end for the Casa Mañana.”

“You’ll have a new club in New York.”

“But it will be one of many good clubs in New York. There was only one good club in New Mexico. It was the best, right?”

“The best. You have the papers?”

“The only authentic jazz in New Mexico. Even if I was gone, it would be like a last laugh.”