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sayin’?’ asked the pilot. ‘I mean we’re livin’ goddamn proof.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’ Mingolla scratched his neck, trying to think of adiplomatic response, but thought of none. ‘Guess I’ll see you.’ He started toward the PX.
    ‘Hang in there, man!’ the pilot called after him. ‘Take it from me! Things gonna be lookin’ up for you real soon!’
    The canteen in the PX was a big barnlike room of un-painted boards; it was of such recent construction that Mingolla could still smell sawdust and resin. Thirty or forty tables; a jukebox; bare walls. Behind the bar at the rear of the room, a sour-faced corporal with a clipboard was doing a liquor inventory, and Gilbey – the only customer – was sitting by one of the east windows, stirring a cup of coffee. His brow was furrowed, and a ray of sunlight shone down around him, making it look that he was being divinely inspired to do some soul-searching.
    ‘Where’s Baylor?’ asked Mingolla, sitting opposite him.
    ‘Fuck, I dunno,’ said Gilbey, not taking his eyes from the coffee cup. ‘He’ll be here.’
    Mingolla kept his left hand in his pocket. The tremors were diminishing, but not quickly enough to suit him; he was worried that the shaking would spread as it had after the assault. He let out a sigh, and in letting it out he could feel all his nervous flutters. The ray of sunlight seemed to be humming a wavery golden note, and that, too, worried him. Hallucinations. Then he noticed a fly buzzing against the windowpane. ‘How was it last night?’ he asked.
    Gilbey glanced up sharply. ‘Oh, you mean Big Tits. She lemme check her for lumps.’ A humorless smile nicked the comers of his mouth. He went back to stirring his coffee.
    Mingolla was hurt that Gilbey hadn’t asked about his night; he wanted to tell him about Debora. But that was typical of Gilbey’s self-involvement. His narrow eyes and sulky mouth were the imprints of a mean-spiritedness that permitted few concerns aside from his own well-being. Yet, despite his insensitivity, his stupid rages and limited conversation, Mingolla believed that he was smarter than he appeared, that disguising one’s intelligence must have been a survival tactic in Detroit, where he had grown up. It was his craftiness that gave him away: his insights into the personalities of adversary lieutenants; his slickness at avoidingunpleasant duty; his ability to manipulate his peers. He wore stupidity like a cloak, and perhaps he had worn it for so long that it could not be removed. Still, Mingolla envied him its virtues, especially the way it had numbed him to the assault.
    ‘He’s never been late before,’ said Mingolla after a while.
    ‘So what, he’s fuckin’ late!’ snapped Gilbey, glowering. ‘He’ll be here!’
    Behind the bar, the corporal switched on a radio and spun the dial past Latin music, past Top Forty, then past an American voice reporting the baseball scores. ‘Hey!’ called Gilbey. ‘Let’s hear that, man! I wanna see what happened to the Tigers.’ With a shrug, the corporal complied.
    ‘… White Sox six, A’s three,’ said the announcer. ‘That’s eight in a row now for the Sox …’
    ‘White Sox are kickin’ some ass,’ said the corporal, pleased.
    ‘The White Sox!’ Gilbey sneered. ‘What the White Sox got ’cept a buncha beaners hittin’ two hunnerd and some coke-sniffin’ niggers? Shit! Every fuckin’ spring the White Sox are flyin’, man. But then ’long comes summer and the good drugs hit the street and they fuckin’ die!’
    ‘Yeah,’ said the corporal, ‘but this year …’
    ‘Take that son of a bitch Caldwell,’ said Gilbey, ignoring him. ‘I seen him coupla years back when he had a trial with the Tigers. Man, that nigger could hit! Now he shuffles up there like he’s just feelin’ the breeze.’
    ‘They ain’t takin’ drugs, man,’ said the corporal testily. ‘They can’t take ’em ’cause there’s these tests that show if they’s on