The artists’ co-op, like the church, was on the west side of the plaza, less than a block north along the alley the vagrants traveled. It had a door on the alley, too, which suited them just fine. No one had a burning desire to show his face on the plaza side at present.
     Like most of the buildings facing the plaza, the co-op was brick, two stories, and washed white. A narrow passage separated it from the next building to the south; the one to the north abutted it and came out further, making a corner that sheltered a couple of trash cans and a small flatbed truck. The back of the co-op had a door on the right side, half frosted glass with crisp, neat letters on it. A concrete slab landing at its foot anchored a wooden staircase ascending along the back of the building through a wood-railed balcony to another door on the second floor. Several tall, multi-paned windows flanked the ground floor door on the left, and the second floor door on the right. The staircase partly blocked two of the first floor windows. A couple small, worn, comfortable-looking chairs cluttered the balcony, and someone had set several pots of flowers out on the railing. They gave the back of the building a cozy, homey sort of feel, wholly alien to what Joe recalled of the front side. That was simply a continuation of the Spanish-era facade common to most establishments on Portola Plaza; tile-roofed walkway fronting stores below, and balustrade fronting apartments above, with more red tile over that. Anonymous and characterless, same as what Joe saw every day.
     Bull’s confidence lasted to within a few steps of the door. Then he grew strangely hesitant and uneasy. He stretched out his hand toward the door, but didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He pulled it back and stretched it out once more. Then he pulled it back again.
     “Here, Bull,” said Gus. “Let me.” He advanced to the door and rang the bell.
     The vagrants waited, and after a while heard footsteps and voices within. Then the door swung outward, and an open, strikingly pretty female face appeared, framed dramatically in a wreath of closely trimmed black hair. Her mouth was half-parted in a greeting that froze on her lips as she saw the men. The pretty face hardened. “What do you all want? We’re not a charity, here.”
     Gus took a deep breath and spoke up. Joe knew what it must cost him to speak as he did next, in front of all his companions. “We want to see Sturgis, Nora. You know me.”
     The woman’s eyes widened. “August? Good god! I’d never have recognized you, looking like that. What happened to you? What are you doing with all these bums?”
     Gus winced, while his cronies protested the woman’s epithet.
     “It’s a long story,” Gus said, “and we’re too rushed to tell it now. Can we see Sturgis?”
     “Well...” the woman’s eyes, narrowed in suspicion, swept over the crowd. Joe could almost see the ‘no’ forming on her lips.
     “Who’s out there, Nora?” came another voice from within. “Anyone interesting?”
     Nora turned. “Just a bunch of tramps, Winnie,” she called. “Never you mind.”
     “Oo, really? Let me see!” Another woman’s face poked out of the doorway, not as beautiful, but clean and pleasant-looking, encased in a close-fitting cap that covered most of her head. “Why, it’s Gussie Traudt! Where’ve you been, Gussie? And where’d you get those clothes?”
     Gussie? Joe thought. There were snickers back among the crowd.
     Gus, looking like a kid caught shoplifting, repeated in a small voice what he had just told Nora.
     “I’m sorry, Gussie,” Winnie said. “Sturgis isn’t in. He and Otto just went across the plaza to look up some buddies. But do come in! I know he’ll want to see you when he gets back. Bring your friends, too!”
     The vagrants swept in, anxious to get through the door before Winnie changed her mind, while Nora protested ineffectually. “Winnie, they’re bums! Winnie!” But her companion was at the head of the crowd, and beyond caring, if not beyond earshot. All Nora could do was follow, sternly admonishing the men not to touch anything...