“It wasn’t anything cinematic,” Street said. “After the show, he was sitting at the bar by himself; I don’t think anyone else recognized him. I bought him a drink, and we traded war stories. I fought Jerry in Europe, he fought yokels in Wyoming. Special Services, entertaining the troops. The way he said it, he was trying to warm the hearts of racist NCOs, trying to make them, at the very least, appreciate his talent. Seems like that’s become a mission for him.” Street shook his head. “An odd cat. But a good man.”

Street took another sip of scotch. Charlie caught the eye of a Copa Girl and did a whirl with his finger—another round of drinks. Onstage, Dean Martin began singing “White Christmas,” prompting more yuks when he alluded to Davis’s hue. From there, he segued into a Rat Pack Noel medley. Margaret turned to the subject preoccupying her, her niece, hoping that Street might have some ideas on how to track her down. He didn’t, but he promised he would think about it.

It was after one a.m. when a familiar face appeared behind Street. The short, wiry man squeezed Street’s shoulders affectionately.

“Sammy!” said Street, standing to hug the singer.

“I saw you from the stage,” Davis said, grabbing a seat.

“All the way back here?” asked Charlie, surprised.

“You wouldn’t understand, my friend,” Davis said, patting Street on the back. “Not a lot of our kind can afford these Vegas shows. And I’ve been following this cat’s career for quite some time now!”

“Well, thank you, Brother Davis!” said Street with a smile. A waitress appeared, unbidden, with a drink for Davis. He took it and lit a new cigarette from the one still burning.

“You, sir,” Davis said, pointing to Charlie, “you, sir, are a mensch for helping Frank avoid that ass-stomping!”

“What exactly did you say, Charlie?” Street asked.

“Get this, man,” Davis said. “Charlie whispered to Wayne all the ways he knows to kill a man with his bare hands.” Davis started laughing uncontrollably. “By the time Charlie mentioned testicles, Gunga Din was Gunga gone, baby.”

Charlie was stunned. “How do you all know that?” he asked. “I only told Margaret.”

“And you certainly didn’t go into such exquisite detail,” Margaret observed.

“Oh, grapevine, baby,” Davis said. “Wayne told people. He thinks you’re psychotic, my man!” Davis and Street were both laughing now. Davis patted Charlie’s arm. “This is great. It’s why Frank loves you. It’s why you’re here!” He raised a glass and they all toasted Charlie’s terrifying Davy Crockett. “To the Alamo!” they cried. Clink-clink.

“Is May here tonight?” Margaret asked.

“No, she’s home with the baby,” said Davis. “I’m flying back in a few hours. I promised her I’d take Christmas and New Year’s off.”