single one of them got a behind. The asses up in here are flatter than the flapjacks at IHOP. That shit is not attractive.”
I elbowed him in the side. Hard. “Stop it, Jefferson!” I said, trying not to laugh since I knew that would only encourage him. “Somebody might hear you. And you promised not to cuss.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, massaging his ribcage. “You know I’m telling the truth. That’s why your ass is laughing.”
A young Asian woman dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform gently rang a chime, summoning everyone to the dinner table. I grabbed Jefferson by the hand and squeezed it tight. “I’m not playing, Jefferson. You better act right during dinner.”
He pursed his lips and pretended to pout.
We joined the other couples at one end of a shiny, mahogany dinner table, long enough to seat twenty comfortably. Black plates with tiny gold squares, gold utensils, and crystal water glasses trimmed along the rim in gold sat in front of each chair. The enormous table reminded me of the one they showed in all the news shots of the president and his cabinet. O’Reilly assumed his usual position at one end of the table, presiding over the group like the Godfather. Away from the office, he wore a thick gold chain and a pinky ring, which almost made him look like he belonged on
The Sopranos,
except he didn’t have dark hair. Two male waiters scurried around the table dishing out healthy portions of blackened salmon, sautéed asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.
The dinner conversation, as usual, was pretty boring. A few minutes about the upcoming election for governor, a polite debate about the next nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court, followed by a benign joke or two from O’Reilly. Then David told a couple of highly exaggerated war stories about the Hayes trial.
I felt Jefferson’s knee bump up against mine. I looked over at him and he nodded in the direction of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. I understood his message, but there was no way we were leaving before dessert. One, it would be rude, and two, O’Reilly had a personal chef whose desserts rivaled Emeril’s. I gave Jefferson a look that told him to cool it.
After another few minutes, I excused myself and headed for the bathroom, taking in O’Reilly’s extensive art collection as I meandered down a long, colorful hallway. The subtle lighting along the hallway gave a comforting, seductive feeling. O’Reilly’s home was an architect’s wet dream. I walked past the bathroom and peered into his spacious playroom. It was nearly fifteen hundred square feet and equipped with every convenience that a man who hadn’t quite grown up yet could want. The room held a fully-stocked bar, pool table, a plasma TV, and a home theater with twenty-four plush, red velvet seats. Like every other room in the six-thousand-square-foot house, the ceilings ran a full two-stories high. Was this what making partnership at O’Reilly & Finney would buy? If Jefferson had a playroom like this he would never go to work.
I finished up in the bathroom and fought the urge to nose around the rest of the house. As I made my way back toward the dining room, I picked up the sound of Jefferson’s voice at a slightly elevated level.
“Naw, man, you got it all wrong. It ain’t about that.”
“That’s exactly what it’s about,” I heard David say, equally animated.
“It’s a respect thing, a pride thing,” Jefferson insisted. “Ain’t nobody trying to disrespect the Indians.”
I rushed back into the room and slid into my seat next to Jefferson.
Indians? What the hell were they arguing about?
“In this day and age, it’s just not politically correct for any team—high school, college, or the pros—to have an Indian as a mascot,” David argued. “The Washington Redskins, the Atlanta Braves, the Cincinnati Reds, and anybody else should be ashamed of themselves. Team mascots are usually animals. So what’s that say about the
I elbowed him in the side. Hard. “Stop it, Jefferson!” I said, trying not to laugh since I knew that would only encourage him. “Somebody might hear you. And you promised not to cuss.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, massaging his ribcage. “You know I’m telling the truth. That’s why your ass is laughing.”
A young Asian woman dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform gently rang a chime, summoning everyone to the dinner table. I grabbed Jefferson by the hand and squeezed it tight. “I’m not playing, Jefferson. You better act right during dinner.”
He pursed his lips and pretended to pout.
We joined the other couples at one end of a shiny, mahogany dinner table, long enough to seat twenty comfortably. Black plates with tiny gold squares, gold utensils, and crystal water glasses trimmed along the rim in gold sat in front of each chair. The enormous table reminded me of the one they showed in all the news shots of the president and his cabinet. O’Reilly assumed his usual position at one end of the table, presiding over the group like the Godfather. Away from the office, he wore a thick gold chain and a pinky ring, which almost made him look like he belonged on
The Sopranos,
except he didn’t have dark hair. Two male waiters scurried around the table dishing out healthy portions of blackened salmon, sautéed asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.
The dinner conversation, as usual, was pretty boring. A few minutes about the upcoming election for governor, a polite debate about the next nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court, followed by a benign joke or two from O’Reilly. Then David told a couple of highly exaggerated war stories about the Hayes trial.
I felt Jefferson’s knee bump up against mine. I looked over at him and he nodded in the direction of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. I understood his message, but there was no way we were leaving before dessert. One, it would be rude, and two, O’Reilly had a personal chef whose desserts rivaled Emeril’s. I gave Jefferson a look that told him to cool it.
After another few minutes, I excused myself and headed for the bathroom, taking in O’Reilly’s extensive art collection as I meandered down a long, colorful hallway. The subtle lighting along the hallway gave a comforting, seductive feeling. O’Reilly’s home was an architect’s wet dream. I walked past the bathroom and peered into his spacious playroom. It was nearly fifteen hundred square feet and equipped with every convenience that a man who hadn’t quite grown up yet could want. The room held a fully-stocked bar, pool table, a plasma TV, and a home theater with twenty-four plush, red velvet seats. Like every other room in the six-thousand-square-foot house, the ceilings ran a full two-stories high. Was this what making partnership at O’Reilly & Finney would buy? If Jefferson had a playroom like this he would never go to work.
I finished up in the bathroom and fought the urge to nose around the rest of the house. As I made my way back toward the dining room, I picked up the sound of Jefferson’s voice at a slightly elevated level.
“Naw, man, you got it all wrong. It ain’t about that.”
“That’s exactly what it’s about,” I heard David say, equally animated.
“It’s a respect thing, a pride thing,” Jefferson insisted. “Ain’t nobody trying to disrespect the Indians.”
I rushed back into the room and slid into my seat next to Jefferson.
Indians? What the hell were they arguing about?
“In this day and age, it’s just not politically correct for any team—high school, college, or the pros—to have an Indian as a mascot,” David argued. “The Washington Redskins, the Atlanta Braves, the Cincinnati Reds, and anybody else should be ashamed of themselves. Team mascots are usually animals. So what’s that say about the
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