For all intents and purposes, Gandee was a one-tavern town--at least as far as whites were concerned. D.D.'s was owned and managed by Danny Duggin, son of Dave Duggin, whose father Donald had built the place when a young veteran of World War I. Three generations of D.D.s had kept everything as it was. Currently, a pair of neon beer signs lit up the plate glass window. The original D.D.'s sign hung over the door on a rusty iron bracket that remained unpainted. Everyone thought it was best left that way. As Danny said: "That sign has character!"
Jack had had his first glass of beer at this bar. He'd shot his first game of pool at D.D.'s table. He'd started, and ended, more Saturday nights here than anywhere else. The regulars included girlfriends, wives, fathers and mothers of all ages, and sometimes even babies. Occasionally, Gandee's elite came, like the mayor and his cronies, always welcome. Only people of color stayed away; and no one ever said they were conspicuous by their absence.
Fresh from a couple of hours in the pits with Foxx, this is where he wanted to be, and he walked in the smoky, jukebox-blaring, laughter- filled pub like a movie cowpoke after a long dry cattle drive. Who said you can't go home again?
First thing he saw was D.D.'s bald head shining under the colored neon. First thing he heard was a half dozen voices shouting greetings.
"It's him. Sonovabitch, it's HIM!"
"Hey, D.D., drinks on the house, right?"