We emerged from the end of the long row. Above us were stars and black sky again. The bungalow sat on the hill. There were riflemen at the foot of the knoll, others behind clumps of bamboo. Orlando was waiting at the first of the stone steps that notched up the incline.

     He went to Lito first.

     He said, “Compadre. Very stupid,” and cuffed Lito on the side of the face with a soft swat that was not soft enough to be friendly. He said a few words, and two of the riflemen held Lito by the elbows and took him around the knoll, in the direction of the caretakers' cottage. The door was closed. Lamps burned behind the curtains.

     Orlando was unsnapping a pocket knife when he came to me. He walked around to my back. He didn't touch me except to hold my arms as he slipped the blade between my wrists and yanked it upward. The ropes fell apart.

     He said, “Next time, my friend,” and gestured up the hill.

     As I climbed, the rifles sounded again in Curba, an irritated mutter that quickly died. I stopped at the top of the knoll and looked back. A ruddy glow bulged above the horizon, out where the first shots had come.

     The Mercedes and the white sedan I had seen behind Danny Boy's were parked beside the bungalow. A flagstone walk brought us around to the front, where four bodyguards lounged. One of them was a kid cradling a shotgun. A tall kid with gaunt cheeks and a dirty bandage on his right arm. He smirked when he saw me. One hand came up to his forehead, and he made a motion like tipping his hat. Though he wore no hat. I was past him, opening the door, when I understood. The hat was Bembo's straw fedora.

     The riflemen stayed outside while I went in, out of the night and into the incandescent glare, the eerie chill. The buffet table was laden. Penney stood at the table, holding