It has gotten darker in the club. There must be a sole red light above the stage and one somewhere off in the rear. Everybody is dancing, or throbbing in place, and they spill up onto the stage. Some of the girls are interspersed throughout the crowd, playing good hostesses. They don’t wear much more than before, but now their nakedness is covered by the hands and opened jackets of a roomful of men trying to dance with them. Something in the back attracts the hitchhiker’s attention. He sees a few quick movements and the flash of a face. It’s familiar but he’s not sure how he feels about having glimpsed it. He figures he had better go over and help this guy out, he might prove useful in getting him out of Las Vegas. Besides, the hitchhiker needs his bag back; or more importantly, he needs what’s in the bag.

The hitchhiker rushes over to the driver, who is being held against a wall by a gaggle of black hands and arms. One of the men back there is Smokey.

“You know dis cracka-ass punk?” Smokey gets right into it.

The driver is staring at the hitchhiker, and still struggling every now and again to show he won’t be so easily dogged; all-the-while a look tacked across his face says he doesn’t believe the hitchhiker will automatically back him up. After all, how much does he really owe him, or how much do they owe each other? It’s hard to tell when all a two-and-a-half-hour trip has yielded is a spontaneous card game heist and a subsequent near-capture by local thugs. Both men are justified in asking whether it is worth continuing with the other; yet this instance doesn’t appear to be the most opportune juncture to part ways.

“Yeah, he’s wi’me.” The hitchhiker doesn’t break his stare with the driver.

“Then tell yo boy to mind wey he goin’ an’ h’wat he says…” Smokey uses this last word as a chance to chastise the driver. He turns to him while his fist pulls a handful of the driver’s shirt. The driver merely tightens his lips as if he’s gathering up a huge spitball to let fly Smokey’s way. If he does, then he’s worn out the graciousness of the hitchhiker –now acting as his grand protector- and deserves whatever he gets. Lucky for them both, he doesn’t. Smokey continues his pontification on ‘honky’ manners.