The phone call was a long catalog of men moving out, more companies going under. For the rest of the evening Paul thought of Tiger Island, wondering what Colette was doing, if she was still pregnant. He went for a walk at dusk, up the tree-lined street toward Glendale, where a warm breeze steamed the sweet ground-hugging smell of apricots and nectarines from backyard fruit trees. Passing into a neighborhood of tile-roofed bungalows, he heard salsa music coming from kitchen doors, and after a few blocks of this, he turned right, found the Los Angeles River, and walked the concrete apron toward the railroad yards. He thought about whether his shortcomings had earned him the grief Colette had given during their marriage—her sarcasm, her baleful over-the-shoulder looks. He wondered if he was a little stupid for putting up with her meanness and then chasing her down to get more of it. But then he remembered why he wanted her, other than her cooking and her looks. She was the smartest woman he had ever known, and, like him, she had stuck with being Catholic as best she could. Even though he believed that she might divorce him in a legal sense, he knew that being married in the church meant something to her, something more than a judge could put a finish to. He was sure his wife was not a bad person, just bad-tempered sometimes when things didn’t go her way. He knew plenty of women who were bad but sweet-natured, and he wanted nothing to do with them. For all of Colette’s anger and ambition, he suspected that she knew right from wrong and one day might manage to grow up. And, of course, she could really dance.

He stopped and looked across the river to the hissing interstate and thought about traveling home to hard times and humidity. In California was money, no boredom, and anything you wanted under the smog. He understood why Colette had wanted to try a life here.

Paul called Manuel, the stay-bolt specialist, a profane, sleek dancer who was too good at making women laugh. They went out and hit the bars in the neighborhood. Manuel was like an open drain to which women flowed. But the women Paul met looked into his eyes and saw he wasn’t really there. When he danced, he insulted them with his movements, showing his back, bending their fingers.

The next week, the men went out again and met two jitterbugging female Realtors. They were intelligent, handsome, and Catholic. Manuel was delighted. Catholic women who cruised were rarities. Paul thought they were too kind, and both lacked a gritty style on the dance floor, no snap, no courage in the turns. They swung on his arm, heavy as skiffs. A woman had to be tough to jitterbug right. She had to have a mean foot.