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Elena,” chided Harmony, “not all of the tourists can afford Pueblo pottery or Armstrong Carr paintings. Johnny and Betts provide a welcome product—tasteless, but popular.” Laughter sparkled in her blue eyes. “Next I plan to make a down payment on a new pickup for Two and Rafaela.” Two was Ruben, Junior, third oldest Portillo and a deputy sheriff under his father.
    â€œYou want a beer, Mom?”
    â€œNot so close to bedtime, Elena. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened between you and Frank. You’ve been pretty vague about that divorce, and your grandmother Portillo was horrified, needless to say.”
    Should she tell her mother that Frank had turned out to be a man who’d knock his wife down during a quarrel over his infidelity? Elena had picked herself up, got her gun from the locked drawer, driven him out of the house, and filed for divorce. Goodbye, Frank. If she told Harmony, Harmony would find someone to put a curse on him. If Harmony told the sheriff, he might come down and shoot Frank.
    Elena sighed. Pop had been dead-set against the marriage. He hadn’t liked Frank, whom Elena had met backpacking in the Gila Wilderness. Pop didn’t even like the Sierra Club, which sponsored the trip. And he had a fit when Elena announced that she was marrying Frank after one month’s acquaintance—two weeks camping and two weekend visits to Albuquerque, where Elena was a student at New Mexico University. But Elena hadn’t paid any attention to her father. She’d been in love.
    â€œPart of it was professional jealousy, Mom,” she hedged. “Frank couldn’t hack it when I did better on the exams and promotion lists, and did it faster. He got to be a real pain. Still is,” she added, remembering that Frank had let Harmony into the house with a key. She’d have to pay that locksmith a visit, ask a few pointed questions, demand a free lock change. And get a restraining order against Frank. She should have done it that one time he hit her, not waited through the divorce and his stupid, post-marital bids for attention.
    Determined to make up for lost time, she went to the kitchen to call a lawyer who owed her a favor. From now on if Frank came within a hundred yards of her, her house, or her car, she’d have him thrown in jail. That ought to go over great with his lieutenant. Once Frank bailed out, they’d can him, or at least shift him from Narcotics to Traffic.
    Elena grinned at the idea of her ex-husband, who thought being an undercover narc was more fun than sex, getting assigned to Traffic. Or Community Relations. He could run around giving lectures to grade-schoolers. He’d have to shave off that dirty blond stubble and put on decent clothes. She was still grinning after her conversation with the lawyer.
    â€œElena, what are you up to?” asked her mother when Elena came back into the room. “I haven’t seen that look since you and your brother Johnny tried to sell the tourists bottled lemonade with lizards in the bottom.”
    â€œHey, we thought if the Anglos would buy mescal with worms, they’d love the lizards. A lizard’s cute; a worm’s disgusting.” Elena excused herself again and went to the front yard to check Omar Ashkenazi’s house. The lights were on. “Back in a half hour, Mom,” she called through the door.
    Omar had a nifty live oak in his front yard that Elena coveted. It looked as if it had spent two hundred years in a strong wind and survived with a very gnarly character. She knocked on Omar’s door, then rang his bell, hoping he’d remembered to take his earplugs out. When she got no answer, she peeked in the window and saw him puttering around in his front room, so she knocked on the window. When he turned to pick up a newspaper, she waved her arms. His sleep mask was pushed up above his eyes, and he squinted, came over, and peered out the window. Then a big