With every nerve in my body tensed, I hurried down the dark streets of San Francisco’s Mission District. Frightening even in the day-time, the neighborhood took on a sinister life of its own in the early morning hours. Only an emergency would have gotten me into those filthy alleyways at 2 A.M., and that was exactly why I was there that night in 1956. Clutched in my hand was my third-grade report card. It had to be signed for school the next day: “No excuses,” my teacher had warned. So I had to find my mother.
I reached the back door of another loud, smoky bar and pushed it open. Inside I stood for a long moment, giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the dim light before I scanned the bar. Not here. I slipped out and continued down
