Harry (Hershel) Myers is almost, not quite, a goniff's Herzog. He's been driven by a ghost ever since he substituted a dog-tag marked ""H"" for Hebrew with a ""P"" for Protestant corporal just before the Nazis came through to mop up their wounded troops. Only the H's got special attention, so Harry's had the corporal with him from the time he returned to Pittsburgh. Then you slide into Albee territory. Harry writes to the corporal's wife and together, via post, they raise a fine son who turns out to be a figment of their imaginations. In between, Harry leads the life of the bachelor brother of a spinster sister, both knives in the heart of their Jewish mother. For Harry, it's six month racket sales jobs, avoiding his sister's vulturously hovering girl friends, Saturday nights with the bosomy, indefatigable Norma and crap games in barbershops. This last results in Harry's rustication in prison for agreeing to hold a deck of marijuana he thought was a pack of number slips. The set piece scenes are marvelous for high nonsense dialogue, but it adds up to an acidulous picaresque through urban renewal target areas.