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pointing up at Joe Louis where he stood on the balcony of the Theresa Hotel, the day after he’d won the heavyweight championship of the world. And Louis himself waving back at them, looking as poised and self-assured as an emperor.
    â€œYou gonna take me out, ” Malcolm said, alarmed—uncomfortably aware that his voice sounded suddenly high and childlike, but unable to help himself.
    â€œIf we got the time—” Sandy started to say, teasing him.
    â€œYou said you was. You said you’d take me everywhere!”
    â€œListen to the Home from Rome. Yeah, we’ll boot you to the play, all right. I just don’t know you can handle all the action we’ll get you—”
    â€œI’ll let you know what I can handle !”
    â€œAh, boy, this ain’t none a that down-home Michiganmess we’re talkin’ ’bout.”
    â€œWe ain’t talkin’ no faust, only a fine dinner—”
    â€œHey, I’m dracula when it comes to the ladies!”
    â€œIs anybody plannin’ to feed the passengers today?”
    Pappy Cousins stood in the doorway, with his arms crossed sternly over his chest, but his steward’s cap slightly askew and his blue eyes shining. He looked at Malcolm first, as usual.
    â€œJesus Christ, but you ah gonna miss one a these days!” he sputtered, his words slurring. “We’re gonna pull into Grand Central with nothin’ but a black arm hangin’ off the back a the train, like a Chinaman’s cue!”
    â€œAh, that ain’t nothin’. You should seen me last Sat’d’y night, Pappy,” Malcolm told him lightly, but he hurried to grab up the heavy, shoulder-strap sandwich box and the coffee pot that would push him up and down the aisles, bending his back and making his neck ache all the way to New York. He tried to dodge past Pappy and out to the train, but the steward stopped him.
    â€œHang on theah. Let’s have a look at you now.”
    He inspected Malcolm with open, fatherly affection, brushing down his sleeves with his whisk broom, straightening his hat. Usually the stewards lorded it over the colored kitchen crews, but not Pappy. He liked to joke with them, turned a blind eye to their lesser hustles, even took their part in disputes with passengers or the railroad. He was a small, fragile-looking man; an old Maine Yankee with leathery skin and large, mournful eyes and a protruding Adam’s apple that made him look more than a little ridiculous, but they would do anything for him. At night in the room in Ella’s house, Malcolm liked to dream of coming on the Yankee Clipper with his own band someday, togged out to the nines. Walking up to an astonished but proud Pappy and stuffing a thick roll of bills into his pocket, telling him, See, Pappy? See what I made of myself ?
    â€œYou watch yourself out theah today,” he told Malcolm now, gripping his arm hard, to impress the seriousness of what he was saying upon him.
    â€œThere’s some soldjah boys in the parlor car, goin’ down to ship out, an’ they’re some mean little peckahs. They’re workin’ on a fifth, too, I seen it.”
    â€œYou seen it? You sure that all you done, Pappy?” Malcolm teased him, the smell of cheap scotch wafting off the little steward through the peppermint he was perennially sucking on. He heard Willard and Lionel chuckle and Pappy’s merry blue eyes spun for a moment, but then he was serious again, crooking a finger at Malcolm.
    â€œNevah you mind what they give me. You’re different to them. Nevah forget that with those fellas.”
    â€œI won’t,” Malcolm said, feeling suddenly hurt, though he knew the older man was only trying to warn him.
    â€œAll right then.”
    Pappy stood back a step, looking him over with obvious pride, and Malcolm instinctively straightened his long body under his gaze. Drawing his back up under the weight of the sandwich