The cooling night winds blew. Across the valley, the range of Sangre de Cristo was a spine pointing south to Santa Fe. At his back the Jemez Mountains were a dark volcanic mass. In between, the moon looked ponderous, ready to crash.

Why had he picked on Fuchs? Because he was angry and the German was the first easy target to waltz onto the dance floor. Jesus, how shameless would he get before this war was over?

Since he was supposed to be on 24-hour call to drive Oppy and handle any “native” problems, Joe lived outside the barracks, in his own room in the basement of Theater 2, the enlisted men’s general-purpose hall. The basement corridor was a black tunnel of volleyball nets and music stands. Without bothering to turn on the light in his room, he went straight to his locker and opened a new bottle of bourbon and a fresh carton of cigarettes. The glow of the match lit a poster for the Esquire All-Stars, featuring Art Tatum and Coleman Hawkins. Hawkins held a tenor sax. The poster was a door to the past and maybe to the future, but it sure as hell wasn’t the present. He blew out the flame; the black men on the wall faded, and he felt as if he were fading himself.

Hanging in the center of the room, next to invisible, was a heavy bag. Joe set his drink and cigarette down, pulled off his tunic and shirt. He tapped the bag with a jab and as much felt as saw it wiggle on its chain. The bag’s name was MacArthur. He hooked it with his left and listened to the satisfying creak of leather and kapok. He hooked again, then crossed with his right and MacArthur jumped. Jabbed, hooked, crossed, bobbed and crossed again. Air popped from the seams. Over the chain, the ceiling groaned. A heavy bag demanded commitment; hit it tentatively and a man could break his wrist. He snapped the bag back, moved in to hit it again and slipped, nearly fell. The bag bounced off his shoulder as he reached to the floor and picked up silk and tulle. The silk had polka dots, like a spotted lily.

“I’ll give you a hint. It isn’t Eleanor Roosevelt.”

Mrs. Augustino lit her own cigarette. She had a silver lighter and a silver cigarette case and that was all. The captain’s wife luxuriated, naked, on the cot. Even in winter she had a two-piece-bathing-suit tan and she was a genuine blonde. She snapped the lighter shut, but Joe wouldn’t have been surprised if her whole body glowed again like a neon sign. An Army wife was a dangerous thing. He could almost hear a neon sizzle.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He still breathed hard from hitting the bag.

“Try and throw me out, Sergeant, and I’ll scream rape so loud they’ll hear me in Santa Fe.”