worn Strat squeal with feedback before leaping into an extended solo, bending strings to near breaking point. Jack sat forward, pointed at the TV, and exclaimed, "Fantastic, man! That is musicianship! That is the blues! Rory Gallagher is the best bluesman of all time! Wow!"

Next up, The Ohio Players, launching into a funk number as Sam stepped out of the bathroom.

"Ugh," said Patti. "Niggers. Sam, turn off the TV." Sam stood next to the set and stared at the floor. Except for The Ohio Players, all was a stunned silence.

Sam looked up from the shag carpet, a shade of relief crossing his face.

"Nope, we don't call 'em niggers. We call 'em fuckin' niggers! Now, turn off the TV—or you can put your shoes on and walk, mister." Herwalk... I'd better drive!" He found it a challenge to unlock his door, fell into the seat, fumbled getting the key into the ignition. Red had to knock on a window to remind Jack that his door needed unlocking, too. Red braced himself for a long ride all the way back to Schenectady.

Jack fired the ignition, the car lurched, tires squealed. He narrowly missed another car's fender, and then they were out of the lot, on a road, onto the Interstate. “Afternoon Delight” on the radio, steel guitar sounds swirling, the Pinto raced along, weaving in and out of empty late-night lanes. Suddenly behind them a siren and flashing. An exit in directly before them, Jack slammed off the Pinto's lights, screeched into black. At the end of