9:32 a.m.

Teatime. Service for three.

Ace Kwan catered the do. They relaxed in Dudley’s cubicle. His tea was bennie-laced. Beth’s and Tommy’s was not. Tommy read the Braille-version Herald. GRAND JURY INDICTS WEREWOLF! wowed him.

Beth ate almond cookies. Dudley smoked and bennie-twirled. They perused catalogues. Phelps-Terkel offered custom-made uniforms. Bullock’s Wilshire hawked their women’s line.

Beth said, “Blue is Claire’s color, but it’s not a winter shade. Mexico won’t be too cold, so she should favor dresses over suits.”

He couldn’t shake Mexico. His losses felt victorious. Hideo was revelatory.

Tommy said, “Can I get a picture with The Werewolf, Uncle Dud? I won’t be able to see it, but my pals at work will think it’s swell.”

Such goodness. Such gratitude.

Dudley said, “Of course, lad. I’ll arrange it immediately.”

Call-Me-Jack walked up. He was pale. He verged on green.

“Carlos Madrano’s muerto. His car blew up on the coast road south of Ensenada. I just saw the Teletype. There’s some kind of Jap angle on it.”

Dudley said, “I’ll miss him. He was quite the grand fascist.”