Coming up past the truck, he got a good look at Mr. Ritchie-not a bad-looking guy, about forty-five, sun-glasses and a high, tan forehead, his dark hair starting to go. Then he was looking at the girl next to Mr. Ritchie with the big round Audrey Hepburn sunglasses; she was reading the Sunday funnies and as Ryan watched her she moved her dark hair away from her face with the tip of one finger: straight dark hair and long, down past her shoulders. She looked young enough to be Mr. Ritchie’s daughter, but for some reason Ryan knew she wasn’t.

Mr. Ritchie and Bob Jr. were watching him and now, one hand on the doorsill and the other on his hip, Bob Jr. gave a little side-motion jerk of his head to call Ryan over. He could hear music coming from the Lincoln convertible and off beyond them in the elm shade he could see the priest in green vestments and the people kneeling before the card-table altar.

Bob Jr. said, “Mr. Ritchie wants me to remind you you’re not needed around here anymore.”

“I’m going as soon as I clean up.” He was aware of the girl looking up from the funnies on her lap, but he kept his eyes on Bob Jr. Then, when Mr. Ritchie spoke, he turned a little-with the towel over his shoulder and holding the end of it in front of him-to let the girl see his arm, the slim brown muscle bunched tight against the side of his chest.

“You’re not a picker, are you?” Mr. Ritchie asked him.

“Not until a few weeks ago.”

“Why’d you join them?”

“I needed something to do.”

“Weren’t you working in Texas?”

“I was playing ball for a while.”

“Baseball?”

“Yes, sir, that’s what you play in the summer.”

Mr. Ritchie stared at him. “I understand you’ve been arrested before,” he said then. “For what?”