Raymond examined the medal.

I said, “Raf gave that to me. He claims it’s what’s kept him alive through wars and vile presidents.”

“ ‘O Mary conceived without sin . . .’ ” Raymond read aloud. “Some break, no original sin. Hell of a starting discount,” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said, taking back the medal. “It doesn’t seem right using this as a lucky piece.”

I went to the window, cranked it open, unlatched and pounded apart the shutters. I whirl-whipped the chain a few revolutions and cast the medal into the snow in the side yard.

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t blessed by priests or anything,” I told Raymond. “Although Raf probably dunked it in drinks and baptized it a few times.”

Raymond emerged smiling from the shower, wearing my blue terrycloth bathrobe and his head in a towel burnoose.

“What kind of band are they?” I asked, from a cross- legged position on the bed.

“Gimme me the choices,” Raymond said.

“Well, I don’t know what’s up with bands these days. I suppose they could be political, or heavy metal thrash, or postmodern punk, or retro-paisley-acid rock, or a neo-folk group, like troubadours.”

Raymond shook off the towel and used it to blot his hair. He said, “The first thing is, they don’t have guitars or drums or nothin’. And they can’t sing; they couldn’t carry a tune in a Peterbilt truck. They’re bankrolled by one of ’em’s father—that one that wears the beret? What he told me is they’re a theoretical band out on a theoretical tour. Which all just means they don’t play music, but talk about how they would play it if they was real, not theoretical.”

“Yeah, but, Raymond, think of all the bad songs they’re sparing the world,” I said.

“It’s a quieter, better place,” he said.

I said, “In fact, I wish there were theoretical poets who never wrote. That’d clear the decks for me. What’s the name of the band?”

“None. The beret guy said a name would legitimize ’em as havin’ a profit motive, and that’d make them whores of commerce. But I believe they tried thinking of a name, and couldn’t come up with any,” Raymond said.

The band and other storm victims were in the sitting room now, dozing or drowsily watching flames snap on the driftwood in the fireplace.

I went past them and into a utility closet. I gathered flashlights, boxes of storm candles, every filled hurricane lamp. In three trips I toted the stuff to the registry desk. I buckled on a belt with an encased flashlight, and pocketed a box of blue-tip stick matches.

Dottie already had a flashlight and lamps waiting on her nightstand in the Commodore’s Suite. She was watching her portable TV: the Patriots losing to the Jets.

Fredo rested on his side, half under the bed’s pinwheel quilt.