“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.

Karak whistled. “You are knowing how to shoot it?” he joked, picking up the gun.

Clive chuckled. “See here?” He pointed to the muzzle, where the initials appeared, finely engraved—C.S.E.

“You fool them, Clive!” Karak said. “How you convince that good girl from a good family to marry you? And convince her father too?”

“More important—how you hide your other women?” Tomoya asked.

“What about all those bastards of yours?” Karak said. “You hiding all those from her too?”

Clive laughed, slapping his knee. The whiskey had colored his cheeks. Amarjeet and the Japanese boy laughed too, mouths open, shoulders bouncing.

Tomoya asked his son a question in Japanese. “Charm,” the boy responded in English. “The word is ‘charm.’”

“Ah!” Tomoya said. “Mr. Clive have charm we don’t know. You see!”

“Drink to that!” Karak said. “All Clive’s charms that we don’t know.”

Kishen emerged from the house, her chunni draped around her face, holding a bowl of popped corn and another filled with biscuits. Clive rose, tipping his hat. Years in the future, when he was gone, Ram would remember his earnestness, this respect paid to Jivan’s wife when he could have ignored her.

“Ma’am,” Clive said, but his knee hit the table and it toppled, spilling the bottle and his half-full glass. Whiskey splashed on his pants, Ram’s arm, Karak’s foot. A liquor-fueled cry went up from the group and Kishen jumped. Ram stood quickly and righted the table.

“Oh, such charms, Clive!”

“So good with ladies!”

“Yah, yah,” said Tomoya. “Mrs. Singh, you come just right time!”

Kishen’s face was half-hidden inside her chunni, but Ram could see her smiling as she retreated to the house.

They sat again and ate the biscuits and popped corn.

“Sorry about your whiskey, Karak,” Clive said.