Rafe went into Miguel’s room and fixed the covers around the small, thin shoulders. He sat on the bed and looked at the sleeping boy while from the living room there still came the sound of laughter and music and the whiskey-voiced singing of the redhead.

Somebody came into the kitchen. Through the open door he could hear ice being dropped into glasses, and pouring.

“You’re all alone out here?” It was Liz’s voice.

“Yes. Just making a couple of final drinks.”

Spurgeon Robinson, Meomartino thought.

“You’re too nice to be alone.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very big, aren’t you?”

He heard her whisper something.

“Everybody knows about us talented colored folks.” The voice had suddenly flattened. “That and tap-dancing.”

“I don’t know about tap-dancing,” she said.

“Mrs. Meomartino, I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a greener, cleaner land.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Where is that?” she asked. “Africa?”

Meomartino stepped through the doorway into the kitchen.

“Got everything you need, Spurgeon?” he said.

“Absolutely everything, thank you.” Robinson left the kitchen with the drinks.

Meomartino looked at her. “Well, do you think you made me Surgeon-in-Chief?” he said.

Later, when finally they had gone, he could not lie down next to her. Instead, he took a pillow and blankets and lay on the couch in the deserted shambles that smelled of whiskey dregs and stale smoke. When he drifted into half-sleep he saw her body, the wonderful pale thighs blocked from view by a series of male backs in a variety of colors, some belonging to strangers and others recognized too easily.

Half-awake, in fantasy he killed her and knew he could not, any more than he was able to walk out of the apartment and drive away.

If it were narcotics, he argued with himself fiercely, would I desert her?

Now he was wide awake.

Saint Raphael, he said into the dark room.

He thought about it during the night and the next morning at the hospital he called one of the numbers in the Yellow Pages.

“This is Mr. Kittredge,” a neutral voice said.

“My name is Meomartino. I would appreciate your getting some information for me.”

“Would you like to meet me somewhere and discuss it? Or come to the office?”

“Can’t we just discuss it now?”

“We never accept new clients over the telephone.”

“Well . . . I won’t be able to come to your office until around seven o’clock.”

“That will be fine,” the voice said.