Even in the shabbiest areas, there were nightclubs with Hawaiian motifs, giant pineapples on their roofs, urine-yellow in the daylight, autographed photographs of huge-breasted girls in the windows, girls who sang and danced, or boys with slickeddown hair, comedians and piano players.

Once she came upon a group of people around a red-cheeked, middle-aged man who held a small American flag in one hand, pamphlets in the other.

“America!” he was crying, “thy purity is besmirched by the Jews! By the mixed breeds, by the coyotes, by the yellow races, by the intolerable mutts and mongrels, the godless and the Reds, the grinning Nigras swarming and filthy. Oh, thy wretchedness! God Bless Us! Friends, take my sermons, read! Learn how you may turn back the deadly tide!” He waved the little flag. There was scattered applause. A man standing on the outside of the group shouted, “Fascist!” then took to his heels. The red-cheeked man, his followers, at what seemed a leisurely pace, went after him. He disappeared around a corner. The street was silent again except for a few cars, the sound of a lawn mower somewhere, a window banged shut.

One evening, Annie came home to Theda’s and found a party in the making. Among the people, some of whom she knew now, was a stranger, a light-skinned Negro who stood slightly outside the group around the fireplace (the never-used fireplace, Theda had put a basket of fruit on the hearth). He was elegantly dressed in a dark-blue jacket and light flannel trousers, a narrow knit blue tie, a white shirt. Annie went to wash up. She put on the amber beads which Ben Greenhouse had sent her. Theda was setting out a platter of thick cold pork chops and a huge bowl of apple sauce. The Negro was standing where Annie had seen him last. They looked at each other, she smiled, he nodded. She went over to him.

“That’s beautiful amber,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Tree resin. Older than anyone can imagine. Sometimes they’ve found insects imbedded in pieces of it from hundreds of thousands of years ago. Wars have been fought for amber.”

“Can I get you a plate of food?”

“No. Thank you, not yet. My name is Cletus Moore.”

“Annie Gianfala,” she said. “I’m staying here with Theda until I find a place.”

“She told me.”

He fetched up a drink from the table beside him.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I think Theda’s got some gin tonight.”

“I’ll have that.”

“It eats out the lining of your stomach.”

“One thing less to worry about.”

He appeared delighted with that. A smile revealed a gap between his upper teeth. He was the color of fine luggage and his eyes were faintly slanted. He looked like a giant chrysanthemum, a pale-golden one. He brought her a glass of gin and water and ice.