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Gibby smile, when Los Angeles had been made. The last five hundred miles had been in a brand new big car, and when I stepped out onto the Santa Monica apartment lined street, I heard the rock an roll music. I searched it out to an open door. Sparky was a river boat deck hand with black hair and eyes and a leather face. Foxie and Hambone were there too, but Sparky saw me first, and laughed the loudest at my wardrobe when I opened up my suitcase for old times sake. All three were transplants from Pittsburgh. Sparky wanted to be- come an engineer, so he would change. Foxie was a trash hauler then, and Hambone was a dope dealer. For better or for worse, their features would never change. Foxie like a fox, or even a hawk, or like a western man who joined the circus before there were cities. Hambone was consumed with a humor that made his face round and his stomach tight. And in turn he loved black women. "Where have you been since you quit the stage?" They wanted to know about our knife fighter friends turned football players, or whatever way it went for them in Miami and Arizona. Hawkery and Briening. Now All-American young men with blades taken university like out of their hands and put across their noses. "Their fine," I said. "When at war, only others will die." "But I'm here on a love; hate relationship." "The Gibby," they said. "We stayed out of it. He and Patrick must be dead!" They nodded to one another, but the music hadn't been cut down. "And just who is Patrick?" I questioned.