44Seven weeks later, I was back in Oakland at the jazz club Neal managed.
I perched on a white IKEA-style bar stool and lifted my tall pilsner glass. Dark-gold liquid filled it to the half-liter line and it was topped by delicate foam.
A large bearded man had set the glass on the wall-mounted shelf beside me and backed off without a word. Turning, he’d taken a zigzag path through half a dozen round white cafe tables scattered across the space in front of me.
All the chairs were taken by an eclectic assortment of guests. The blend of more than twenty voices was pleasant background music and their mingled colognes scented the air.
A blond woman in a caftan reached out, putting a hand on the bearded man’s flannel sleeve to halt him mid-flight. She tilted her chignon to ask a question.
He
