Ramona Sprague was the only one of the three who looked like Madeleine; if not for her I would have thought the brass girl was adopted. She possessed a pushing-fifty version of Madeleine’s lustrous dark hair and pale skin, but there was nothing else attractive about her. She was fat, her face was flaccid, her rouge and lipstick were applied slightly off center, so that her face was weirdly askew. Taking her hand, she said, “Madeleine has said so many nice things about you,” with a trace of a slur. There was no liquor on her breath; I wondered if she was jacked on drugstore stuff.
Madeleine sighed, “Daddy, can we eat? Bucky and I want to catch a nine-thirty show.”
Emmett Sprague slapped me on the back. “I always obey my eldest. Bucky, will you entertain us with boxing and police anecdotes?”
“Between mouthfuls,” I said.
Sprague slapped my back again, harder. “I can tell you didn’t catch too many in the cabeza. Like Fred Allen you are. Come on, family. Dinner is served.”
We filed into a large, wood-paneled dining room. The table in the middle of it was small, with five place settings already laid down. A serving cart was stationed by the door, leaking the unmistakable aroma of corned beef and cabbage. Old Man Sprague said, “Hearty fare breeds hearty people, haute cuisine breeds degenerates. Dig in, lad. The maid goes to her voodoo revival meetings on Sunday nights, so there’s no one here but us white folks.”
I grabbed a plate and piled it with food. Martha Sprague poured the wine and Madeleine dished herself out a small portion of each item and sat down at the table, motioning for me to sit beside her. I did, and Martha announced to the room: “I want to sit opposite Mr. Bleichert so I can draw him.”
Emmett caught my eye and winked. “Bucky, you are in for a cruel caricaturing. Martha’s pencil never flinches. Nineteen years old she is, and a high-paid commercial artist already. Maddy’s my pretty one, but Martha’s my certified genius.”
Martha winced. She placed her plate directly across from me and sat down, arraying a pencil and a small sketch pad beside her napkin. Ramona Sprague took the adjoining seat and patted her arm; Emmett, standing by his chair at the head of the table, proposed a toast: “To new friends, prosperity and the great sport of boxing.”
I said, “Amen,” forked a slice of corned beef into my mouth and chewed it. It was fatty and dry, but I put on a yum-yum face and said, “This is delicious.”
Ramona Sprague gave me a blank look; Emmett said, “Lacey, our maid, believes in voodoo. Some sort of Christian variation on it. She probably put a spell on the cow, made a pact with her nigger Jesus so the beast would be nice and juicy. Speaking of our colored brethren, how did it feel to shoot those two jigaboos, Bucky?”
Madeleine whispered, “Humor him.”
Emmett caught the aside and chuckled. “Yes, lad, humor me. In fact, you should humor all rich men pushing sixty. They might go senile and confuse you with their heirs.”
I laughed, exposing my choppers; Martha reached for her pencil to capture them. “I didn’t feel much of anything. It was them or us.”
“And your partner? That blond lad you fought last year?”
“Lee took it a bit harder than I did.”
Emmett said, “Blonds are overly sensitive. Being one, I know. Thank God I’ve two brownies in the family to keep us pragmatic. Maddy and Ramona have that bulldog tenacity that Martha and I lack.”
Only the food I was chewing kept me from braying outright. I thought of the spoiled sewer crawler I was going to screw later that night and her mother smiling numbly across the table from me. The impulse to laugh came on stronger and stronger; I finally got my mouthful swallowed, belched instead of howled and raised my glass. “To you, Mr. Sprague. For making me laugh for the first time in a week.”
Ramona gave me a disgusted look; Martha concentrated on her artwork. Madeleine played footsie with me under the table and Emmett toasted me back. “Rough week you had, lad?”