After the tournament, he tried to buzz Sarah Lauffler. The information operator told him there was no such person listed either in Atlanta or in any town within a twelve mile radius. Twice defeated, he came here, fully intending to drink himself into painless oblivion.

The band finishes “Night Train,” and is about to do “Broadway Baffle,” when even the sanctuary of music and liquor disappears. Harv Matision walks in. He wears skintight leather pants, no shirt and a tiger skin vest. His hair hangs loose about his shoulders. There’s an untamed, almost feral air about him. He’s accompanied by three beautiful, and obviously underage, girls.

“Set ‘em up all around,” he shouts to the bartender. “I had myself a real profitable day on the links. I feel like cutting everybody in on it.”

He sees T.K. up on the bandstand. ‘Hey, smart move, Mann. Since you’re too old for sports, get a job you can do sitting down.” He turns to the bartender. He doesn’t have to shout now to make himself heard. There’s not another sound in the bar. “How about a glass of iron tonic for the old drummer?” He rocks back in laughter.

Silently, T.K., under perfect and deadly, control, puts aside his drumsticks, gets up, and heads for Matision. Grinning, Matision spreads his arms in a circle about him, clearing out an area two feet around. T.K. steps inside it.

“How do you want it?” T.K. asks.

“Any way you think you can handle, grandpa,” Matision answers, at the same time swinging his right side toward T.K. to present a smaller target. Matision’s right arm sails out. He’s got a knife.

It’s over so quickly, it’s hard to believe the contest involves two of the country’s leading masters in the art of hand-to-hand combat.

T.K. slides sideways, ducking the knife, comes in hard and bends back Matision’s elbow. As Matision’s arm stiffens, T.K. rams his knee into Matision’s kidney, once, twice, three times, and pushes him, sagging, headfirst into the bar. T.K. sets his heel to Matision’s right hand and grinds it around until the knife falls free. Then he kicks Matision twice in the ribs.

Gasping for breath, Matision doubles over. T.K. stoops, picks up the knife, and grabs Matision by the seat of the pants. He puts the knife point to Matision’s rear end. The crowd gasps in expectation, but T.K. chooses humiliation over bloodletting. In four neat slices, he cuts the seat out of Matision’s leather pants, exposing Matision’s bare behind.

T.K. jams the knife into the floor and breaks it.

He calls the cocktail waitress over. “Honey, get the youngster a glass of milk and a clean set of diapers, will you?” He stuffs a hundred dollar bill (Ripper Henry’s lost bet money) down the front of her dress. “Keep the change.”