Jill was watching him, but rather than say something he merely snapped his countenance to determination and spun about to carpe the fucking diem, acting having the earmarks of being a sounder bet. The dark restaurant lay before him like a mausoleum. Men strewn about, place sealed shut. Creepy.

“Why’s it so dark in here?” he asked her, turning back around and taking a half step.

“The shutters are down. A little light gets in through the cracks, but not much.”

“Jill, I know. What I’m asking is why the lights are off.”

“I didn’t want to wake everybody up.”

“Well I do. Why don’t you show me where all the switches are.” That went well, he thought.

She nodded, evidently pleased with the request, and walked past his follow. As they walked he caught a glimpse of Langston tucked away in one of the booths. He remembered being in Rome as a kid, on a tour of the Catacombs. All those corridors and coves, bare light bulbs suspended from the ceiling. He had thought, Okay, if I get lost down here the thing to do is start breaking light bulbs and follow the remaining light out to the exit. He had thought that was a pretty clever plan at the time. Later he realized how fucked he’d be with that plan if he ended up in a dead end, dark and alone. And clever.

“Wake up, Langston!” he shouted, startling Jill but eliciting no apparent response from the intended victim. They both stared at the sleeping man for a moment. “Lights,” he said to her. “Wait a second. Where’s the TV?”

“The busboy took it back to the kitchen early this morning. He’s watching it there.”

“Yeah, well he can bring it back up here and watch it with the rest of us.”

“I think he was only trying to be considerate of the ward.”

The ward. Funny, thought Rudd, it’s really funny. Sarcasm, yet she doesn’t seem to be a drinker. “A Latino kid carrying off a television set: probably the same scene that was on it when he unplugged it. Don’t trust him too far,” he whispered.

Jill was saved from having to respond to this by their arrival at the first panel of lights. She rattled them off: bar, booths, front, painting illumination. She pointed to another panel ten feet away near the corridor to the rest-rooms: back hall, those two tall lamps. He waited until she was through then used the full of his hand to slide all switches to their brightest positions, walked to the other panel and did the same. A chorus of groans arose from the room. Rudd ignored them.

“There’s more in the kitchen,” she told him, and they went straightaway.

Sure enough there was the busboy, leaning back on a chair with his feet up on a sink, watching the televised riot coverage while using a wooden cooking spoon to munch from an enormous can of beans.

Rudd felt the rage of his residual drunk seize him. “Hey, Paco!” he yelled, slapping the boy’s legs from the sink. “You speak English?” To Jill: “He speak English?”

“His name’s not Paco,” she said coldly.

The busboy set down his beans and rose to a standing position, aggressively taking a step toward Rudd.

“I don’t care what his fucking name is,” said Rudd as he opened his jacket to expose the Walther.