The fire had died to a shimmering bed of red-hot coals. He shoveled most of the coals from the pit, exposing the glowing stones. He lowered his bundle into the opening, covered it with wet alfalfa, replaced the hot coals, covered the coals with dirt and tamped the dirt firm with the back of the shovel. He put his hand on the bare dirt and felt no warmth. The heat stayed buried below, doing its work.

Meantime, during the afternoon, Henry had engaged the village band for Sunday. The band consisted of old man Apodaca, accordionist; old man Vigil, guitarist; and old man Peralta, fiddler. None were under sixty-five; the young men of El Culito, busy melting down the springs of their Chevies, played only radios.

After hiring the band, five dollars per player, he drove his truck to La Cantina Contenta, Eddie Vigil, Prop., and bought the essential ingredients for a proper art-salon soiree: ten gallons of Gallo Brothers Dago Red, a keg of beer, a magnum of La Corona Superlativa champagne (hecho en Mexico), universally acknowledged to be the world’s worst but cheapest champagne. Myra had insisted on champagne punch for her gallery opening. He also bought a gallon of Gallo’s fine Oakland Bay Chablis to fill out the champagne.

On the way home Henry paused at Mama Vigil’s little one-stop general store for a dollar’s worth of gasoline—empty the hose, por favor—and a large economy bottle of Alka-Seltzer tablets.

This party was costing him a pretty peso, a full week’s pay to be precise, and Myra, when she figured it out, would throw a conniption fit. But really, what else is money good for? And would there be enough to drink? Naturally he’d invited everyone in the village to come, as well as his gringo friends to the north, and if only a tenth of the locals showed up the beer and wine might drain away fast. But Henry’s friends, the wiser heads among them, would bring booze of their own.

He looked forward with confidence to the consummation of his plans and hopes.

WILLEM VAN HOSS, that enormous excessive fellow, arrives in the early afternoon, driving up in clouds of dust and a cold blue wind from the north. Great belly sagging over his bull rider’s buckle, red beard draped over his chest, black hat clamped on his balding head, he stomps in boots across the planking of the veranda and bursts into La Galerie, shouting—

“Chinga los cosmos!” He seizes Myra in his arms and crushes her to his broad frame, kissing her sloppily on mouth and eyes. “You sullen sexy little slut, what’s a girl like you doing in this slum? Let me take you away, away forever, into the romance and the wonder of Albuquerque.” She submits briefly, helpless but smiling, then slips from his grasp as van Hoss spots Henry stirring the champagne punch. “Hah, there he is, the lean skulking hillbilly himself.” He strides to Henry and lifts him off his feet with a bear hug, then drops him, takes the ladle from Henry’s fingers and samples the punch. He makes a face.