"Peace and Justice."

"Yeah, they had a bunch of celebrities giving talks. It was so goddamn boring, that's why I ripped 'em off. I figured they weren't gonna cut it, so fuck 'em."

"But when we came here for dinner, you were broke."

"I'd bought a ton of acid and a few pounds of weed by then."

"You said, "It looks like we're going to have to eat and run, fast," and I said, "Why don't you take up a collection?"

Remember?"

He was looking around again.

"Yeah, shit, I remember."

Robin watched his gaze stop and hold on a trio of strolling musicians across the room, short, heavyset guys in red vests, two with guitars, one with a stand-up bass. They were singing "The Shadow of Your Smile" to a table of diners trying to ignore the trio.

"I dumped the bread out of the basket and that's what you used," Robin said, bringing Skip back.

"You went from table to table."

Skip was grinning.

"I went up to this couple, I go, "Pardon me, but can you spare some bread?" The guy thought I meant bread. He goes, serious as can be,

"You ask your waiter, he'll get you some." I like to died."

"You sound more Indiana farm boy," Robin said, "than even you did before."

"From hanging out with these two stunt guys from Texas. Couple of shitkickers, but good guys. I think before Mr. Mario told me to sit down I scored about fifty, sixty bucks."

"Thirty-seven," Robin said, "and the drinks and dinner came to thirty-two fifty. You might've left a tip, but I doubt it."

"Come on-you remember the exact amount?"

"After we talked on the phone I looked it up in my journal. It was thirty-two fifty."

"That's right, your notebooks. You filled up a bunch, huh, writing your column."

"I have everything we did," Robin said, "from the summer of 'sixty-eight in Chicago to June of 'seventy-two, when we were busted and jumped bail. I have the names of every single person we were involved with, too. Including the copouts."