t? I've read about it," Patrick offered.

"Go is an ancient Japanese game," the player said without looking up.
"It requires intelligence and concentration."

"That leaves me out," Patrick said. The couple at the bar walked out.
As the woman passed through the door, she looked back at Patrick and
smiled. Her eyes were gray, her shoulders half-turned, her weight
evenly balanced. She was about 21, his age. He smiled back, surprised.

Women didn't usually pay attention to Patrick. He was compact, medium
sized. He had reddish-brown hair and a square face with high cheekbones
and traces of freckles. His blue eyes were set deeply behind thick
eyebrows. He had been called "cute" a couple of times. Mostly he got
sympathetic smiles as women pushed past him, going for the tall, dark,
and handsomes, or the ones with money, or the major losers. It was a
mystery to him how people got coupled up.

"My name is Eve," the waitress said in a luxurious voice as she bent
forward with his plate. She had goddess breasts and smelled of
patchouli.

"I'm Patrick," he said and choked. "King of repartee," he added,
regaining his voice. She smiled as if she had known him deeply in
another life, and then she swayed away into the kitchen. The Go player
remained immersed in study, an air of relief emanating from his face.
Perhaps he was recovering from the attentions of dark beauties with
trust funds. Don't be jealous, Patrick told himself. When the gods want
a good laugh, they give you what you want. "Try me," another voice in
him said. "Long dark hair."

He ate dinner and began to confront the next problem. He had a few
travelers checks in reserve, but he'd always found work before he had
to cash them. He had paid for his own flight back to Wiesbaden.

"Come on, Pat, let me pay," his father offered.

"Nope."

"You're a hard case, Patrick."

It had been a good visit, but Patrick was ready to go after a week. "I
thought I'd try Woodstock, New York," he told his father. "You used to
talk about it."

"My old stomping grounds," his father said. "I have a friend there,
Heidi Merrill. Haven't heard from her since her husband died. She has a
son. Look her up for me, Pat--give her my best."

"Will do."

Patrick checked around the cafe for a pay phone, wondering whether
there was a listing for his father's friend. No phone. On his way out
of the cafe, he changed his mind and ordered a beer at the bar. The
room was filling. A Van Morrison alb