“That his friend?” Roubillard tipped his head toward Ram. When the dealer ignored him, Roubillard directed his gaze at Clive. “Raghead nigger got a friend who ain’t a raghead.”

“You been drinking, Maurice,” Clive said, as if to explain everything.

“Are you playing this round, sir?” the dealer asked.

“Sure am.”

The game continued. Karak won. The dealer swept the chips toward him. Clive was leaning forward now, just staring at the table in front of him.

“Hey, Clive, you know the stuff these ragheads eat?” Roubillard was talking too loudly.

Clive finally looked up. Karak caught his eye, and something passed between them. An expression Ram couldn’t decipher. “What d’ya mean?” Clive said good-naturedly.

“They love that slop we give our pigs. What d’ya call it? Butter something—butter water? Butter milk? That’s it, buttermilk!” He sprayed the table with his saliva. All the men smelled the liquor. He slapped the table and laughed. “We throw it in the slop for our hogs, but they like to drink it for breakfast. Hank at the woodshop told me that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Same stuff, two different uses.” He laughed again.

“He is a jackass,” Ram said in Punjabi, hoping to hold Karak back. “Keep your temper.”

Roubillard nudged Clive. Clive snorted again. “Let it go, Maurice.” His gaze returned to the table.

“Why you feeling so bad, Roubillard?” Karak said. His voice came from deep in his throat. “Maybe you feeling that we are farming better than you?”

Ram bit the inside of his cheek. Why could the man not keep from taunting?

“Maybe you bring dirty cotton to Jake Smiley last week?”

Roubillard’s eyes narrowed.

“Maybe your cotton so dirty he gave you less payment than he gave to us next day?”

Clive lifted his head to look at Karak. Roubillard scanned the table. He took a drag on his cigarette. “You think you can come in here and do what you want, boy?” His voice softened. He leaned forward almost imperceptibly. “Ya better know your place. Ya hear me? Boy, it’ll be better for ya if ya know your place.” With one quick movement, he flicked the cigarette butt at Karak. Karak caught it against his shirt—a movement without thought—then snapped his hand away in pain. The cigarette fell to the floor. He stamped it out with his boot.

The dealer signaled a bystander. Two men stepped toward Roubillard and stood on either side of his chair. “You’ll have to leave now, sir,” one of them said. Roubillard looked up at them.

He started a lazy, drunken laugh. “If that don’ beat all—they takin’ me outta here ’stead of you.” He shoved his chair back and stood up, tottering. “Come on, Clive. They don’t want good Valley residents like you ’n’ me in here. Place is turnin’ into a shithole! El Owl! Rather have these ragheads.”