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good girl, but in the future you should give a little more thought to your patrons’ interests.”
    â€œI will, senhor! I promise!”
    To Kuwayama he said, “Don’t be hard on her. Really.”
    â€œOh no, not now!” Kuwayama grinned, withdrawing his hand from his pocket.
    The man in white took his hat and his briefcase from the lamp table, and smiling at the bowing women and Kuwayama, turned from them and went toward the men who stood waiting, watching him.
    His smile died; his eyes narrowed. Reaching the men, he whispered in German, “Fucking cock-sucking yellow bitch, I would cut her teats off!”
    He told the men about the tape recorder.
    The blond man said, “We checked the street and all the cars; no young North American in jeans.”
    â€œWe’ll find him,” the man in white said. “He’s a loner; the groups that are still active are all Rio and Buenos Aires men. And he’s an amateur, not only by reason of his age—twenty-two or -three—but also because he gives the name ‘Hunter,’ which is English for Jäger; no one with experience would bother with such jokes. And he’s stupid, or he wouldn’t have let the bitch know he’s at a hotel.”
    â€œUnless,” Schwimmer said, “he isn’t at one.”
    â€œIn which case he’s smart,” the man in white said, “and I hang myself in the morning. Let’s find out. Hessen, our Paulista who allows himself to be followed by an amateur ‘hunter,’ will now make amends by giving each of you the name of a hotel.” He looked at Hessen, who looked up from an examination of his hat. “A hotel good enough to serve food at late hours,” the man in white told him, “but not so good as to discourage the wearing of jeans. Put yourself in his place: you’re a boy from the States who’s come down to Paulo to hunt for Horst Hessen or maybe even Mengele; which hotel would you stay at? You’ve got money enough to overbribe waitresses—I don’t think the bitch lied about the amount—but you’re romantic; you want to feel you’re a new Yakov Liebermann, not a comfortable tourist. Five hotels, please, Hessen, in order of likelihood.”
    He looked at the others. “When Hessen names your hotel,” he said, “you’ll take a box of matches from that bowl there and go outside and repeat the name to a taxi driver. When you reach the hotel you’ll find out whether or not they have there a tall young North American with brown hair in close curls , who recently came in wearing blue jeans, a short blue denim jacket, and a blue-and-white airline shoulderbag. You’ll then phone the number on the matchbox. I’ll be here. If the answer is yes, Rudi and Tin-tin and I will be right over; if the answer is no, Hessen will give you the name of another hotel. Everything clear? Good. We’ll have him in half an hour and he won’t even be through listening to his damned tape. Hessen?”
    Hessen said to Mundt, “The Nacional,” and Mundt said, “The Nacional” and went to get a matchbox.
    Hessen said to Schwimmer, “The Del Rey.”
    And to Traunsteiner, “The Marabá.”
    To Farnbach, “The Comodora.”
    To Kleist, “The Savoy.”
    Â 
    He listened for about five minutes, then he stopped, rewound, and started again from where they finished admiring whatever the hell they were admiring and “Aspiazu” said “ Lasst uns jetzt Geschäft reden, meine Jungens ” and sure enough got down to business. Business! Jesus!
    He listened to the whole thing through this time—saying “Jesus!” and “ God almighty!” now and then, and “Ooh you fuck , you!—and after the clonk and the long silence that had to be the waitress bringing the bowl downstairs he stopped and rewound partway and replayed a few bits and pieces, just to