Davis had grabbed a recorder from a girl dressed as a squaw while Lawford beat on tom-toms.

“¡Revolución cubana!” the two men shouted from the center of the parade ground, commencing with a popular one-hit wonder from the mid-1950s, before the Castros and Che landed at Playas de las Coloradas from Mexico.

¡Revolución cubana!

I just fell in love in Havana

She ran for the Puerto

And wished on me muerta

And left me with just my banana!

“¡Olé!” the singers shouted, prompting clueless cries of “¡Olé!” from the crowd. Some of the teenage girls started to dance. Charlie wondered if they were drunk or trying to avoid their “dates” or just having a little harmless fun, the kind kids their age should be having in purer settings.

He looked at Violet; her “date” stood a few feet in front of her. Charlie stared at her; he didn’t want the old man aware of his presence. Finally, sensing the eyes on her, Violet glanced to her left and saw Charlie, who motioned with his head that he wanted her to follow. Violet’s face registered no reaction. Charlie realized that she probably figured he was just another pervert. Then, as if something had snapped in her brain, she looked at him again and her eyes opened in recognition. Uncle Charlie? she mouthed, and he nodded.

¡Cubana revolución!

Batista retribution!

He calls CIA.

And they say come-what-may

No, no, no to wealth redistribution!

Señorita—

Your skin—leche con café

On your Sierra Maestra I want to play

While I attack in the valley beneath Escambray

Charlie put a finger to his lips, then pointed upstairs. Violet understood.

¡Revolución cubana!

Now I’m back in ol’ Indiana

I loved to do pillage

In each sexy village

Every lady like heaven-sent manna!

Charlie casually strode to the stairs, followed by Violet, who seemed nervous and eager to flee. The porch wound around the back of the fort and they ducked into a room, at the far end of which was, luckily, another door to another set of stairs. Beyond the fort lay the banks of the faux Missouri River, on which they were relieved to see a canoe.

Borrowing some of the light cast on the immense H, Margaret held the first document close to her face. It was a bill from a costume designer for seventy-five squaw costumes. The next was a bill from the same costume designer for fifty flapper outfits. That was followed by dozens of other bills for dozens of costumes—leprechauns, witches, plantation, Kentucky Derby, and the like—dating back to 1953.

Margaret looked back at the most recent bill. It was dated two weeks ago.

Sheryl Ann studied a different stack of papers in the light projected onto the giant O. “Here’s a photo of Chris Powell at some film premiere,” she said. She held it up. Powell and his date were smiling.