If Jed's question brought the response of someone pointing over at a viente-uno, or 21, table, he still had not brought undue attention to his search. After 376 tries —which took twenty hours— in a sleazy hole in the wall with the ambitious name of Tropicana, a man turned on his bar stool with a "Yo."

Rosenbaum accepted the explanation that a friend of a friend had suggested Jed buy Black Jack a beer. They found a noisy table at the foot of a small stage featuring the naked sexual posturing of two well endowed female dancers who only seemed to have eyes for each other.

A particularly difficult bit of contortion caught the crowd's fancy and in their enthusiasm it was nearly impossible not to glance up for a moment. However, Jed did catch a test being set up by the black expatriate in switching their beer bottles. Through temperament and training, Jed was color-blind. He was neither prejudiced, nor a puppy dog liberal whimpering for a kick so as to repay years of exploitation. People to him were people; just people. And, he had been through this little ploy before with a militant Umatilla Indian.

"Oh, senor, I am sorry. You have been drinking out of my bottle. Ai yi yi, maybe you should see a doctor. You could die from sickle-cell anemia."

Jed retained the bottle, took another swig of beer, thought about a group of innercity youth he had taken out for a wilderness experience, and replied in the latest street talk expressions, "Sheet, you jive talk turkey. You putting this gringo honkie on. I may catch yellow fever. Black fever, no way bro."

Rosenbaum laughed for a full two minutes, tears running down his delighted face, before reaching out with both hands to slap Jed's outstretched, upturned palms.

As the evening progressed to a less noisy table, and mucho Balboa beer, an instant rapport developed between the two. Black Jack found an understanding audience for the tales of his childhood. Jed, tossing in an occasional aside from his own upbringing, was able help him explain away doubts about Black Jack's childhood that should have been put to rest long ago —a difficult task for a young negro coming of age in Caddo Parrish, Louisiana, during the late 1930's.

"Well after they strung up Clem, I hid out in the basement of an Army Air Corps captain on what is now Barksdale Air Force Base."

"How did that come about?"