Lucky and I went back to the greasy spoon where Flo worked and they greeted each other like they had survived the Battle of the Bulge together. The coffee shop was quiet, but a guy in one of the booths was pumping nickels into the little table-top Wurlitzer extension box at he end of his booth, and pretty soon, we both flinched over our hamburgers. The voice that came out of the main speakers of the Wurlitzer was unmistakeably that of Condolezza Schwartz. The facade of her music was very much like the facade her plastic surgeon had provided. Not exactly ugly, but a little off-true, with a faintly Cyborgian look to it. She was singing one I hadn't heard before, which made me wonder how lucky I was not to have heard how many others.

The men who understand me are so fewwwwww
They know just what I really want to do
They understand my neeeed
To make the world aneewwwwwww
But the men who understand me are so few!
 

I know that you are out there, men

With kind and gentle faces

I know you are looking for meeee

And want to take me

To interesting places

And though you are so very fewwwww

You can be sure that I

Am looking for youuuuuuu

Toooooooooo!

(Slide guitar echoes theme with heart wrenching glissandoes)

The men who know just how a feel inside
There are not many of them, though I don't know whyyyy
They're so few and far between
Even fewer that I have actually seen
Why are these understanding men so hard to fiiiiiind?
 

I know that you are out there, men

With kind and gentle faces

I know you are looking for meeee

And want to take me

To interesting places

And though you are so very fewwwww

You can be sure that I

Am looking for youuuuuuu

Toooooooooo!

(Slide guitar echoes theme with heart wrenching glissandoes)
(Fiddle rejoins with distant call of heartbreak in hills)
(Fade)

Lucky and Flo were chatting shop and yukking it up and I needed to find my way to the gent's. I walked down the booths, and as I passed the one with the Schwartz fan in it I almost stopped in my tracks. I had seen the guy before -- shoulders like sugar-cured hams and a hairline on violent retreat, long sideburns and the rest shoulder-length, tied back in a ponytail of gray grease and white protest, thick cheap shades and a cauliflower nose. It was the cheif roady who had been leading the procession the night Lucky and I got claimjumped. He was staring at a photograph of Condolezza Schwartz, on the table in front of him. I saw the snapshot clearly for a second as I strode by his booth. It was recent, maybe the last couple of weeks even. He didn't look up. He was sipping black coffee from one of the cheap Navy-style mugs they use in dives like Flo's.

He was holding it in his left hand.