(Note: When crack journalist and provocateur Jake Tarwater disappeared into the wilds of the Texas Hill Country last year, I immediately put all of my agents throughout the state on the case full-time. Nothing developed for some months until Olga, my No. 2 Houston operative, filed a cable stating that someone resembling Tarwater had been spotted driving away in a sports car from a Houston barber shop. I took personal charge of the investigation forthwith and some weeks later I came face-to-face with the scrutable Mr. T in a singles bar in one of Houston’s dreaded apartment complexes. “What’s up?” I demanded. He pretended to ignore me and nuzzled the topless dancer perched on his knee. I persisted, however, employing those same hardnose interviewing techniques that he had taught me and, many jiggers later, he broke down and told me the following saga. — C.F.)

It all started on one of those crazy weekends when nothing is happening and boredom leads one to questionable behavior. Nothing worth a damn was going on in Houston or Austin. All the bands were either on the mellow, get-back thing or were again discovering the blues and trying to compensate for not having been born poor black sharecroppers.