“Haruo say Mr. Clive come from town.” Tomoya’s eyes went to the boy, who had already seated himself near Amarjeet. “Good to say hello to you all.” He grinned. “I hope to see you do this.” He indicated the bottle sitting on the table. The men laughed.

Jivan rose and offered Tomoya his seat.

“Meet my countryman, Ram,” Jivan said.

Tomoya extended his hand, and Ram hurried to offer his own; he could not disappoint Jivan. The father shook Ram’s hand with the smallest of bows. His broad face was weather-beaten, sun-lined, but he carried himself like a younger man. Ram did not like the touch of his skin, but for Jivan’s sake, he tried to hide his feelings. Perhaps Tomoya sensed them anyway, because he did not look at Ram again.

Karak handed the Japanese man a full glass. Tomoya took a sip.

“We are talking the Highline Canal,” Jivan said. “How many years do you say?”

“At least three,” said Tomoya.

Karak shook his head.

“Not enough people working,” Tomoya insisted.

“With only Indians and Mexican labor, we’ll be lucky if we get it in three,” Clive said. “Mañana this, mañana that. Not like you boys. You bring it in, I’ll say that much.” Clive took a sip. “You too, Tom.”

Ram saw Jivan take in a breath, glance at Karak. But Karak seemed unperturbed.

“How is your mother, Clive?” Karak asked.

“Pretty good, thanks for asking.” A smile spread over his face. Ram saw that he was a young man. He hadn’t realized this before, not with the height, the ringing voice, the roughness. “I guess you boys should know—I’m getting married.” The smile spread into a broad grin.

“Hey, hey!” Karak said, clapping him on the back.

“Congratulations,” Tomoya said.

“Becoming a responsible member.” Jivan raised his glass.

Ram felt a pressing need to say something—“You must give us some sweet.” He put the English words together slowly.

Clive looked at him.

“That custom is not followed here,” Jivan said lightly, in Punjabi. “They don’t share sweet foods when giving good news.”

“No, no, that is a Punjabi custom,” Karak said in English, grinning. “Us Hindus—you know, Clive.” He turned to Ram. “Here in America, we drink to the bride.” He poured more whiskey, ignoring Ram’s refusal, and the men raised their glasses again. “Wish you many good years together!” Karak said. The men drank.

“Good whiskey, Karak,” Tomoya said.

“Last week I brought it from Mexicali.”

“We wish Clive more good fortune,” Tomoya said. The others laughed. Karak poured another round.

“Who is the lucky lady?” Karak asked.

“Jim Riley’s youngest girl. We’re getting hitched in January. Don’t know what she sees in me.”

“Respectable too! One of the first families!” Karak slapped him on the back.

“Look,” Clive said. “The whole family loves me. Her father gave me this.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a .45 Colt revolver and laid it on the table. Lamplight gleamed off the mother-of-pearl inlaid in the grip.