“Sit up straight, woman. Drink with dignity,” Raf told me, as we sped in Pru’s car through a tunnel of smeary lights, past a candelabra-like fountain.

Raymond lounged sideways on the passenger’s seat, gaping at Pru.

The drink finally caught fire in my stomach. “Where is she taking us?” I asked.

“You’ll like it,” Pru said.

Raymond said, “I can make trivial decisions. Like is it Pepsi-Cola or RC; what watt of bulb goes in this fixture. But I’ll be switched if I can decide who to love, or what God wants.”

“Knock it off, Ray-mo,” Raf said. “You’re fast descending the ladder of my respect.”

The downtown streets were deserted. Lights were on for no one in the high stacks of mirrory towers. But the avenues away from the business district were packed with traffic, and there were men heckling cars from curbs, night people soliciting. Neon bathed everything deep candy colors—reds, purples, oranges, greens.

“I brought this up with my sponsor,” Raymond said. “Leandra. She had me read Exodus, where Moses gets the big ten. So I’m studying them and for the most they’re straight out—don’t rob, don’t kill. But you know the one God gets most het up about? ‘Keep holy the Sabbath!’ Like, you’ve had your six days to work. Go on break!”

“You don’t sound too squashed anymore, Raymond,” Pru said.

“My head is kinda clearing. Can I have a sip from your bottle, Paige? It won’t make anything worse. I’ve already fallen, committed the sin of sloth, I believe it is.”

Pru took us to a gallery opening.

We moved in a weavy procession up a gravel walkway, past security guards, into a lobby that was wide, white, icy with marble.

“David Salle,” Raf said to a painting. “My, you smell.”

Maybe a hundred people milled about inside the main hall. Pru swept from person to person. She kissed rouged cheeks, received hugs from the men.

Raymond seemed blunted now and stood out of her sphere.

Raf had located a bay of hot snacks. He and I set to work on them.

“You’re eating all the shrimp puffs,” I said.

“You ate all the caviar disks and there were thousands.”

“What may I get you?” asked a bartender.

Sculptures were on exhibit: nine-foot columns of white- enameled steel.

Raf decided he liked the columns and that they meant a great deal. He asked me if I could see how much they meant.

“Ah, not sure,” I said.

“They have to do with narration,” he said.

“Oration? Oration, yes. Possibly they do.”

“They’re guideposts to a signified infinity,” he said. “That’s what’s important.”

Pru introduced us to the artist, a professor of hers back when she was at Rice.

He was short, with an angel-hair toupee, a black turtle- neck, black slacks.

“All the shrimp puffs are gone!” he said. “These people are vultures.”