Joe meant to only glance in. There were about twenty tables, enough to assemble a miniature, artificial Santa Fe: society Spanish in heirloom mantillas, artists who had fled New York, cultists who had fled California, lawyers not sharp enough to practice anywhere else, all sitting in the glow of stamped-tin chandeliers. The ladies found a table. The Indian stood at it, bringing forth silver rings and pins in his hand. From the table nearest the kitchen Harvey waved a clarinet. With him were Klaus Fuchs and the woman from the car, Anna Weiss. They were having after-dinner coffee.

“Back in business.” Harvey held the instrument out for Joe’s inspection. It was a used PanAmerican with a chrome-edged bell, the basic high-school model. “Picked it up in the pawnshop.”

“This ought to strike terror in the Emperor’s heart,” Joe said and handed the clarinet back. “Feeling okay?”

“We had a premature detonation on the test range this afternoon,” Harvey explained to Anna. He looked up at Joe. “Just the bloody nose. I’m fine. Sit down.”

“The sergeant has other duties, I’m sure,” Fuchs said.

Anna Weiss said, “Sit, please.”

She wasn’t a rosy English fair. Not pallid, either. More of a smooth china paleness, made all the more startling by her hair, black as an Indian’s but finer, and rakishly set off by a red lacquer comb. She wore a Hawaiian shirt with red palm trees. The ensemble had a go-to-hell quality that would test the nerve of any escort, let alone a stuffed shirt like Fuchs. At least her accent was softer than his.

“Through his clear thinking and quick actions, Dr. Pillsbury saved the lives of a great many men this afternoon,” Joe said as he sat. He laid his newspaper on the table.

“You didn’t tell us, Harvey,” Anna said.

“Tell them, Harvey,” Joe said. “How you doused the cordite.”

“No, no.” Harvey had been drinking. A blush rose from his neck up. “Joe’s the real war hero.”

“I saw him in action this morning,” Anna said. “He defeated a car.”

“It’s unbelievable they let him in.” Fuchs had yet to acknowledge Joe’s presence, and now he stared at a new irritation.

The old Indian stood at the table and displayed his arms laden with necklaces, nodules of blue and green turquoise on knotted string. Cleto was a Santo Domingo man, and the Domingos sold jewelry up and down the Rio and even into Navajo country in Utah. His eyelids were low and his shirt was stained with trails of brown chili sauce, but the ribbons in his hair were bright. The La Fonda not only suffered Cleto, but prompted him to approach guests as long as he did so with a minimum of contempt.

“How much?” Joe asked.

“Two dollar.” Cleto laid the necklaces on the table.