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HYLAND Del Prado unless you, too, represent faded elegance. Johnny Bratton showed up one evening last winter, in the middle of his one-way trip to nowhere. A chill ran through the lobby, for its elderly white denizens did not know how to deal with a black drifter who was caked with street grime and whose long silences were punctuated by bursts of unexpected laughter. ere was no predicting that he would soon be running errands for new friends, receiving invitations to breakfast, or whistling at Patricia Bock, the hotel's salty manager, and getting away with it. Indeed, Patricia Bock had to be grabbed by the arm and shaken before she would stop looking down her nose at this uninvited guest. "Don't you know who that is?" asked the man who runs the variety shop. "No," she said. "at's Johnny Bratton." "So?" "Do you remember Joe Louis?" "Oh, he was my idol." "Well, that man there was as famous as Joe Louis." e point would have been exaggerated anywhere other