Our eyes met across the tables. Guys came to Frank’s Bar to find other guys and hopefully get laid. He was a lager drinker, a good sign. I was on ic...d cider, the latest craze.He was coloured, probably Caribbean. This part of London had its share, especially on carnival day.When he went to get a refill at the bar, I went too. I'd timed it that way, pacing my drink with his. I stood next to him waiting my turn, listening to the rich inflection in his voice when he spoke to the barmaid, the only. Thankfully, Marcy never poked her head in the room during the rest of mystay. Mrs. Whitcomb paid me with cash. I was half-afraid that she wasgoing to give me a check and stop payment on it when she finally came toher senses. Two old bromides popped into my head: 1) the customer isalways right; and 2) there's no accounting for taste. Still, anyoneattempting to rectify this particular mistake would be in for a lot ofwork. It wasn't my problem. I pedaled home and ate my lunch. I had a hard time. More

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