"Everything's just the way it used to be for us back in college," Meritaten muttered. "Except our waistlines, our cars, and our computers."

"Ah, eternal Egypt," Peez commented. She considered this little nest of aging Baby Boomers. They'd grown up in a society that saw them as the center of the universe, they'd indulged one set of whims after the other, they'd amassed great heaping piles of Stuff, and if you didn't think too much about their age-mates who'd been destroyed by the Viet Nam War, as a group they'd had it good. Why let a little thing like death stop the fun?

A remarkably pharaonic outlook, that. All in all, she was surprised that more Boomers hadn't subscribed to Ray Rah's restored stab at that Old Time Religion.

At least their tombs won't be despoiled, she thought. No self-respecting burglar would be interested. All the electronics they stow away with them for eternity will be obsolete before the seal on the sarcophagus dries.

"You know," she said aloud. "Tradition is a wonderful thing. A sacred thing. I know that of all the different groups that we at E. Godz, Inc. represent, yours is the only one worthy enough to fully appreciate the holiness of continuity. The gods themselves smile upon those who—"

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting in the back seat of Ray Rah's own Lincoln Town Car while his driver whisked her off to her hotel. The first thing she did after fastening her seat belt was to dig Teddy Tumtum out of her carry-on bag and wave a piece of parchment in his furry face.

"Look!" she crowed. "They loved me, Teddy Tumtum. They all told me how much they appreciated my coming out to see them in person this way. Sure, their group's nothing more than a bunch of old yuppies trying to keep a death grip on their youth, but why should I care about that? Read this and weep, Dov! Chicago's power—money, numbers, media clout, the whole shebang—and it's all promised to me, right there, in black and white!"

"Looks more like black, yellow, and a little red," Teddy Tumtum said, studying the parchment. "This is written in hieroglyphics. Good luck getting it to stand up in court, even if some of these squiggles do look like legs."

Peez jealously snatched the parchment away from the bear. "It won't come to court. Why should it? This is only the first of my victories. I hadn't yet hit my stride while dealing with Fiorella, but now—! Ho, ho! Look out, world, here comes Peez."

"Good idea," said Teddy Tumtum. He dove back into the carry-on bag and hid himself beneath a spare pair of Peez's serviceable white underpants. "I think I liked her better when she was shy," he grumbled to himself as Peez's maniacal, triumphant laughter filled the car.

Dov leaned across the table in one of the Blue Coyote Diner's back booths and played an ongoing game of Twenty Questions with the Native American man opposite. He'd been at it ever since he'd showed up for this agreed-upon meeting with Sam Turkey Feather and he was starting to get sick of it.

"Zuni?" he asked. Sam shook his head. "Hopi? Navajo?" More misses. Dov sighed. "Okay, fine, I give up. What is your—nation? Tribe? Look, I don't mean any offense, I'm just not sure which one's okay to say."

"You mean today?" Sam's mouth curved up. The rest of his face—bright eyes, black hair, smooth skin—made him appear to be about the same age as Dov, but his mouth was oddly older. Much older. A fine webbing of wrinkles creased his lips and the surrounding skin, and when he smiled he revealed crooked yellow teeth. It was striking, disconcerting, and fascinating all at the same time, and it made it extremely difficult for a body to look elsewhere when conversing with this man.

In fact, it was as if Sam Turkey Feather's mouth exerted an incredible power over anyone he met, a power he was more than happy to exercise to the fullest, to his own advantage.

No wonder he insisted on a face-to-face, Dov thought, his eyes riveted. Not that I wasn't going to insist on it myself, after coming all this way out here to Arizona to get his support. But I'll bet he gets plenty of other business contacts who try to keep their interactions with him on a long-distance-only basis.

What was it Ammi had said when they'd first beheld this man out in the diner parking lot? Oh, right: That mouth gives him a leg up on the competition, a foot in the door, and the upper hand. Then the amulet had started laughing so raucously, with no sign of ever stopping, that Dov had been forced to stuff the little silver blob into his back pocket and sit on him.

"Is that all the answer you'll give me?" Dov demanded.

Sam shook his head. He wore his jet black hair long, in braids tied with rawhide strips, adorned with silver balls and clusters of tiny animal fetishes carved from semi- precious stone. They clicked and clattered together whenever he moved his head, like the macabre decorations on Mr. Bones' painted staff.

"Why is it always so important for you white men to know the names of everything? What is it, a passion for pigeonholing? Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder? Brand-name recognition?"

"All I asked was a civil question: Which tribe are you from?" Dov said. He sounded petulant and no longer cared about whether or not "tribe" was the politically correct term of the moment.

"Yes, and I have chosen not to answer. Is this the only reason you came here to see me? I don't think so. You're here because of what I do, not who I am; where I'm going with my business, not where I came from. And what difference would it make to you if I did tell you my tribe? Would you have any idea of what that meant, besides having a label to slap on my forehead?"

"Hey! I happen to have a great deal of respect for—"

"—'you people'?" Sam chuckled. "Which aspect of 'you people' am I for you? The Noble Savage? Hmm, probably not: much too dated. The Proud Rebel against the White Military-Industrial Complex Oppressors? Nope: too guns 'n' granola. Thank God you're not a woman! You'd be casting me in every white woman/red man romance novel you ever read: Blazing Breechclouts, Tender is the Tepee, Whoopee Warrior and all the rest." He laughed again, louder. "I'd only disappoint you. I never work out, I couldn't find my abs on a bet, and I look like a real dumbass in a skimpy loincloth."

"Look, what I'm trying to say—" Dov made another effort to be heard, but Sam had his own agenda in high gear and was not about to be stopped.

"No, wait, let me guess! It's more fun this way." Sam picked up a piece of toast and waved it around as he spoke. "You once actually went and got a whole book about Native American cultures so you know lots and lots about what makes each nation special. Or else you've only got one or two tidbits you can toss off to impress me with how informed and aware you are. So if I tell you I'm Hopi you'll say, Right. Kachina dolls. Cool. Zuni? Yeah. All those little stone fetish animals. Cute and ecologically sensitive. Makes a nice gift for the folks back home and doesn't take up much room in the suitcase. Or Navajo? That's the motherlode: blankets, silver and turquoise jewelry, sheep, and maybe, if you actually read that book of yours instead of just looking at the pretty pictures, you'll remember the Code Talkers from World War II. But I'm not holding my breath."

"I wish you would," Dov snarled. "It's the only way I'll get a chance to say anything in my own defense."

"Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me." Sam took a big bite of buttered toast and beat it senseless with his horrible teeth. "Maybe I'm right about you, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you really do know more than a couple of sound bites' worth about us injuns, keemo sabee. I don't care. It's not worth my time to find out, and it wouldn't give you any sort of leverage with me. So how about we stop trying to become each other's best buddies and just be businessmen? It's what I do best."