I had to use my fingertips to open my eyes- and then close them again. The morning sun was shining on me like Jehovah's mighty kleig light. I turned to face the pavement underneath what was apparently a concrete and wood-slat park bench. Someone had thoughtfully placed my fedora beside the bench, and it was full of a variety of denominations of change and small bills. I sat up, supporting my very heavy head with both hands. Whatever Martell had slipped me had put me under for a long time- maybe days. I felt for the snubnosed revolver - gone, of course. I saw a giants shadow cast on the pavement before me, and turned around to look up. There he was, reflecting the morning sun, cast in ancient bronze and towering over me. It was W.C. Handy. His statue anyway. Shit. I was in Memphis. I laughed out loud, and was immediately poked in the ribs by a passing beat cop. "move on, pal," he said. I got up and put on my hat. Coins scattered on the sidewalk like pennies from heaven.

"Like Jack said" I smiled at the officer," secret's in the sauce." I stumbled toward the siren sound of that blues guitar.