Not yet.

It was nine o ' clock in the morning: the hour which, like a spade turning clods of earth, exposed to the day a myriad of busy creatures that had lain dormant in the quiet night. Mission Street at this hour was populated by a whole community that Gun could not have seen on his tour of duty -- the neighborhood that had known Urbano Quintana by day.

Sol Phillips had purchased the Alliance Furniture Mart seventeen years ago. It was professedly worth three thousand dollars in stock and good will, and the name was written in gold in foot high letters across each of the two display windows.

On the right window, at eye level, in smaller print but also in gold, was Gonzalez, Prop., and under that, Se Habla Espanol. Mr. Phillips took a razor to Gonzalez, Prop., but left the promise that Spanish would be understood because he thought it meant that Spanish clientele would be welcome. Language was no problem anyway; Mr. Phillips had only to signal from his doorway to summon aid from the ubiquitous bilingual children who played on the sidewalks of Mission Street.

Aside from the fact that business was slow this time of year and his one salesgirl was not the most enterprising, Mr. Phillips had no worries at all, and he said as much to Gun Matson, who sat across from him in civilian clothes, on a Jiffy-Couch-a-Bed, mauve velour, $79.89 nothing down special!

``She's honest as the day,'' Mr. Phillips said, and added, ``Mr. Gunnar, I can say this to you: Beebe is a little too honest. You cann't tell a customer how much it's going to cost him to refinance his payments before he even signs for a loan on the money down! A time plan is a mere convenience, you understand, and when'' -- He interrupted himself, smiling. ``I put her in lamps. That way I don't lose so much.''