It was one of those lovely autumn days in Manhattan. I had anchored myself two blocks away from Harry Belafonte’s office, sitting at the front window of a diner.
For several months I had been trying to arrange an interview with him. I was chasing the life of Sammy Davis jr, whom Belafonte had known and offered advice to about the entertainment industry for black people in the 1950s. Sitting inside that diner I fretted that the interview might be cancelled. As I gazed out the window, however, a tall, caramel-coloured figure strolled right by. I blinked. Harry Belafonte! He was obviously going to his office. To meet me! I raced from the diner, galloped wordlessly on the street right by Belafonte,
