“I wish we were anywhere close to finding out what the favor was,” said Charlie. “Momo’s ask.”

“And how are you planning to go about that?” Street asked.

“We’re working on it,” Margaret said, snapping back to attention. “Charlie stopped John Wayne from rearranging Frank’s face, so he likes us now. We’re hoping we’ll get an invite to Sinatra’s place in Rancho Mirage, hang out at the pool, let the liquor flow.”

“Loose lips sink ships,” said Charlie.

“You know, I might have an in with these guys too,” Street said.

Davis was starting to walk off the stage; Sinatra and Martin were singing “Boys’ Night Out,” arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying jokily.

“Hey there, mister, build a fence ’round your sister, it’s the boys’ night out,” the two sang.

“Better keep smiling, Sammy, so everybody knows where you are,” Sinatra said. Riotous laughter.

Suddenly, Street seemed irritated; Margaret asked him why. They were speaking in hushed voices, but a woman at an adjacent table turned around and shot them a peevish look. “Ssshh!” she said.

“That whole Stepin Fetchit routine they have Sammy doing, it’s bullshit,” said Street, lowering his voice even more. “I hate that they make him do that Buckwheat schtick. Especially after everything Sammy’s been through.”

“Been through?” asked Margaret.

“That flat nose he has,” Street said. “That’s from all the beatings he took during basic at Fort Warren.”

Charlie shook his head in disgust. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Black soldiers before Truman integrated the military. Or after, for that matter.

“One time, a bunch of privates covered him with white paint, wrote nigger on his chest, coon on his forehead,” Street said. “He could have gotten them court-martialed, but he wouldn’t give up their names.”

“Jesus,” said Charlie.

“How do you know all this?” Margaret asked.

“I met him at a bar back in Chicago, I think around ’51,” Street recalled. “This was before I met Renee, so don’t ask me why I was out drinking, Margaret!”

Margaret batted Street’s arm lightly as the woman at the adjacent table glared at them again. Street returned her look with stony indifference, and she turned away, flustered.

“He was touring with his dad and uncle, the Will Mastin Trio,” Street said. “They were performing at Chez Paree, and I recognized him from articles in the Chicago Defender—that’s the Black paper. You should get a subscription, Margaret. Langston Hughes writes a column for them.”

“I will,” she said, blushing. Street was always trying to appeal to Margaret as a fellow progressive, which embarrassed her establishment Republican husband, as did Street’s oft-stated belief that she had at least twenty-five IQ points on her lesser half.

“Okay, okay,” said Charlie. “Back to when you met Sammy Davis?”