His eyes held the sunken look of an office flunky but there, just barely, had the snap, the fire of one last good throw down. His eyes scanned the mar...'s cheap suit, undoubtedly the best he could buy as a bottom-of-the-heap accountant or whatever the fuck he was.He sighed deeply; this was exactly what he needed. He took one last pull from his beer, wincing, it had warmed while he waited. When he rose to his feet, a few people cautiously noted it. Over six feet tall, dressed in a biker's. In those days he would have been called a “quadroon,” meaning that he was only one-fourth black. His grandmother was a house slave on a Louisiana cotton plantation. His mother was a “mulatto,” meaning that her father – unknown, but probably the Lord of the Manor – was white.She was technically a free woman, having been freed by her master at his death, but her life was not much better than when she was a slave. She eked out a living in one of Vidalia’s “sporting houses.” His father... also. More

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