The saint stooped on one knee to peer into Oswaldo's eyes. "So you really believe in me. Really?"

"It would seem I was wrong," said Oswaldo. "You are the real thing. Covetousness, envy, sloth, surely you are one of these. Or the revenge appertaining to their exercise."

"So? And what if I am a figment? Beatification is bullshit. I myself went straight from the fevered imaginings of a hyperthyroid deacon directly to the company of the blessed, thence to the botánicas. St. Rose is the real thing but, believe me, she's bad news, all that S and M. Santa Barbara, Santería, Expedito—a jolly company we are."

Oswaldo rubbed his eyes. The saint was back between the Marlboro Lights and the alarm clock. Barney the crow was in place, crushed underfoot. But San Expedito was still speaking. "I am figment, like I told you. Don't fight it, kid; you are delirious."

The saint stepped aside with the gesture of a game show host bringing on a fresh contestant. "And now, St. Rose of Lima to say I told you so. Amy, please." Amy Fisher in skintight spangles, high heels and fishnet hose came forward to pull back a velvet curtain. Amy wore a satin team jacket much as those favored by the Dominican baseball clubs. The jacket said "Mama Coca" across the back in chenille letters.