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gwine t’do?” Phil laughed. “Sing ’n’ dance?”
    No one said anything, but several reproving glances were cast in his direction. Phil, nearing sixty, was apparently suffering hardening of the prejudices.
    O. J. mentioned a few other “iffy” possibles for the head table, then proudly announced, “I have one more piece of excellent news, gentlemen...the most important thing of all! This year, the annual Sons comedy plaque will be given to Billy White and Jack Black!”
    “Goddelmighty,” Natie said, awestruck, “they must both be ninety!”
    O. J. shook his head. “Jack’s ninety-two, but Billy’s only eighty-seven.”
    “ Only ?”
    We were all impressed. Though I’m younger than most of the board, I remember comedy appearances on early TV of Black and White, “America’s oldest, funniest vaudeville stars.” They dated back to 1900 or thereabouts. White was British, like Stan, but lost his accent and music-hall style in Second Avenue burlesque, Coney Island carnival, vaudeville, et cetera. He met Jack Black at Minsky’s, where Black was a candy butcher. They shaped up a two-act PDQ and soon became a headlining team.
    “Both of them,” O. J. told us, “now live upstate at the AGVA retirement home. We’ll rent a limousine—”
    Natie groaned.
    “—pick them up, then take ’em back afterwards. Of course, if the weather’s rough, they’ll have to cancel, but otherwise—”
    “Forget the otherwise,” said a new voice. “They’re not coming!”
    It was our VP, Hal—at long last back from the phone booths. A chunky man about 5-foot-7, he has a head of grizzled gray hair that looks like a used Brillo pad. I would have suspected a hairpiece except for the dandruff flecks that he scratches from his scalp and, after a quick, furtive inspection, flicks to the floor. He sat down between Dutchy and Tye, barking his shins on the table leg in the process. Reaching for crackers and cheese, he managed to decorate his cuff with an aromatic smear of the latter substance.
    “What do you mean, they’re not coming?” O. J. echoed, stunned.
    “Just what I said,” Hal mumbled through a mouthful of Keeblers. I turned away, not willing to study the open spectacle of teeth and masticated Saltines.
    Hal has a habit of dropping bombshells casually at committee meetings, then staring abstractedly into space, as if unaware of the weight of the pronouncement he’s made. At last, under the impatient prompting of the board, he said he’d talked to the nurse at the AGVA home and learned that Billy White had suffered a mild stroke. He was in fair condition, but it was extremely unlikely that’d he be going anyplace in the next few weeks.
    “What about Jack?” O. J. anxiously asked. “Couldn’t he accept the plaque for both of them?”
    “I dunno,” Hal said, swallowing a mouthful of cracker. He complained it was too dry. Tye rose, went to the bar and bought him a drink. Meanwhile, Hal admitted he hadn’t considered the possibility of bringing just Jack Black down. “I thought you wanted the two of them.”
    “Well, certainly,” O. J. said, “but if it’s not possible, Jack can take the place of both. In fact, he’s the one we really need. You know how sharp he still is? He agreed to do a part in the skit we’re getting ready.”
    “At his age?” Natie asked, startled. “Sure it’s safe?”
    “His doctor said the mental challenge’ll be good for Jack, provided he gets plenty of rest before and after.”
    “Well, so be it,” Dutchy Hovis said. “Hal, get the home back on the horn and ask Jack if he’ll come by himself.”
    “He’s liable to be asleep by now,” someone observed.
    “Never!” It was Tye Morrow. He set the drink in front of Hal Fawkes. “Jack is probably still up chasing nurses.”
    Hal said he’d call Black as soon as he finished his drink. In the meantime, we discussed what to do if Jack Black said no. At the least, that would mean scrapping the ten-minute pantomime