Alice couldn’t take it anymore. “Music! Would anyone like to hear music while we eat?”

“I guess that would depend on what kind of music,” Sturm said.

Alice wasn’t ready for that. “Well, ahhh, we have…classical?”

“We have classical music, Mr. Sturm,” Annie said.

Sturm wasn’t impressed. “Fine.”

“We also have plenty of gangster rap,” Annie said. “Would you prefer that instead?” Frank thought he heard a whisper of a laugh from the kitchen.

Sturm didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“I have some serious black metal—Scandinavian death metal, you know?” Clearly Annie’s favorite.

“I don’t—I don’t think that would be appropriate for the dinner table,” Alice said.

The second course was brought out, giant ceramic tubs of some kind of pasta in a creamy white sauce, with broccoli. Like the minestrone, it tasted fantastic. Edie came out and asked, “You folks need anything?” and got a sharp look from Alice. “If you’re looking for music, we’ve got some really cool disco albums around here.” She started to softly sing under her breath.

“Please Edie, no ABBA. Not tonight.” Alice helped Edie into the kitchen.

Annie’s tone got more playful with Sturm, nicer somehow. “Let’s see. I think we may have some country music around here. Old stuff.”

“I always liked them singing cowboys, the early ones. Roy Rogers, Sons of the Pioneers. Gene Autry. Not like that shit you here on the radio nowadays. Just ’cause they wear a damn cowboy hat. Those people wouldn’t know authentic country music if it came up and bit ’em on the ass.”

Frank himself had a weakness for the Mexican tunes he had heard around the barns from twenty dollar boomboxes choked with dust. The only Spanish he spoke was related to racehorses, so he figured the music had to be love songs. The lead singer sounded wounded somehow, but sang with a rolling melody like water over rocks in a desert creek. The band was almost always made up of trumpets, tubas, maybe a strange little guitar or two, and an accordion holding the whole thing together.

Frank kept this to himself.

Alice came back. “I’m sorry. She always gets nervous around company.”

“She won’t be like this around the guests, will she?” Sturm said. “I mean, maybe its best if Mrs. Glouck stays in the kitchen once we have company.”

Frank knew Annie’s feelings were hurt because she took her eyes off Sturm and for a second, couldn’t look into his face. Frank had been wondering which mother was Annie’s, but still wasn’t sure. He heard Alice say, “Ah, I, well—don’t think that will be a problem. I hope this won’t interfere with our arrangement.”

Annie cut in quick. “I think Mr. Sturm will understand this is a trial run, won’t you Mr. Sturm?” She’d looked back up and now stared across the table at him. Without waiting, she rolled on. “He’ll understand that we have thirteen days to polish our services. We will get it straight. Tonight is a simple get together.”

“No dear,” Alice said just as fast. “I believe the word was ‘audition.’”

“Tell me, Mr. Sturm—”

“Call me Horace,” Sturm damn near shouted.

“Tell me Horace, who exactly is this family’s competition? Given the nature of your enterprise.”

Sturm crossed his arms, leaned on them, knocked on the table. “Just making sure the food and service is at a professional level. Our guests have traveled the world, eaten at the finest restaurants, slept in the finest hotels. I’d hate to disappoint them.”

“I think you’ll find, Mr. Sturm, that your guests will be taken care of. There will be no complaints, I promise you,” Alice said with an edge in her voice, an invitation for Sturm to disagree.

“I gotta be honest here, ladies.” Sturm leaned back and turns his palms up, as if surrendering. “Everything I have seen and tasted tonight has been delightful. If I come across as some mountain man who’s been out in the hills for too long, my apologies. I believe in being up front and honest. I have full confidence in this family’s capabilities.”

“See?” Annie said. “I told you Mr. Sturm—”

“I said, call me Horace,” Sturm said and pulled an envelope out of his pocket. Inside was four pages of legal writing.

“—Horace would understand.”

“How lovely,” Alice said.

Sturm waved the brothers away and got up and flattened the papers on the table next to Alice’s plate. He signed it, then let Alice sign. She signed twice. Sturm took the top two pages, refolded them and tucked them away as he sat back down. Alice gave her copy to a brother and he took off.

And just like that, the ice was broken. Frank could feel everyone at the table relax, as if the house itself had exhaled. Alice and Sturm talked politics and weather. Frank caught Annie glancing at him now and again throughout the dinner, but her expression was indecipherable. He couldn’t figure out what the next dish was, chicken parmesan maybe, but something was different. Sturm had to point out it was tiger meat. Frank didn’t care. It tasted unbelievable.

* * * * *

Edie came out and tried to kiss Alice at one point, but Sturm didn’t say anything. He just looked at his plate. The only other incident came just after desert, delicate little pastries filled with heavy crème. Frank didn’t know how it started, just that there was a pop from the kitchen, and Gun slammed backwards through the door, the front of his shirt on fire. He was pursued by two older brothers, who seemed to be more interested in making sure the flames burned off his face before the fire was extinguished.

Still, Gun fought back, punching and kicking, ignoring the flames searing his flesh. Eventually, he ripped off his burning white shirt and tried to use that as a weapon. Annie jumped to her feet and hurled the pitcher of water at her brothers, but it glanced off Gun’s back and exploded against the wall. Edie burst from the kitchen and slammed Gun onto the floor. She kicked her toe under his shoulder and jerked him up, rolling him against the still damp shag carpet. That put out the fire.

She whirled and slapped both of the attacking brothers at the same time. They backed into the kitchen without a word. Then she got herself a handful of Gun’s hair and lifted him off the floor and threw him at the kitchen door. He landed on the linoleum floor and slid into the stove with a crash.

Edie turned and said, “My deepest, sincere apologies. I knew it was a mistake to give him a job lighting candles. Should’ve never given him a lighter. You have my word, Horace, that this will never happen again.” She vanished into the kitchen and slammed the door.

* * * * *

The house was quiet except for the muffled slaps and cries from the kitchen. The rest of the brothers had vanished into the shag carpet. Annie stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me. I’ll be right back. In the meantime,” she snapped her fingers and two brothers reluctantly appeared. They quickly poured two whiskies and threw the glasses in front of Frank and Sturm.

Annie followed her family into the kitchen. “Stupid goddamn French fry licking—fucking morons—you too—” The door shut, reducing Annie’s voice to hisses and barks.

“Well,” Alice said. “My goodness. The boys, they like to roughhouse. Um, cheers.” She lifted her glass at Sturm and Frank.

Sturm took his whisky, saluted Alice, and threw it back.

Frank decided it would be okay to drink. So he took a solid sip. It left a clean, pure burning path down his throat and rekindled the embers lying dormant in his stomach. His mood improved instantly.

Sturm waved his glass in the general direction of the brothers flanking the front door. They leaped to life and immediately refilled it.

Ignoring Alice, Sturm asked, “How’re my girls?”

“They’ve been worse.”

Sturm snorted into his whiskey. “Hell yes, son. I know that. Are they going to be ready to hunt?”

Frank took another sip and let it sit in his mouth for a moment, feeling the smooth sizzle of the amber liquid. He swallowed and nodded. “They’ll be ready.”