It was a dump. The name had changed a half dozen times over the last half century, but the spots in the tablecloths remained the same. The dump had seen the Lost Generation, the Beat Generation, and now the Ridden Generation. Only, Malloy supposed, they called themselves the Riderless Generation. Well, maybe they were. Maybe they were like him. He walked in, hanging onto that thought, his stride long. He cut down his stride. At that rate he would be out in the alley soon. Self-consciously, Malloy slid into a chair at a vacant table so he wouldn't draw undue attention. As he began idly tracing the grease spots on the tablecloths that looked like the wrappers from a line of cereal boxes, all red and white checks, he discovered every shaved head in the room was triangulating him. He shifted uncomfortably. He was playing it middle-of-the-road. He had a close crew-cut and wore a plaid flannel shirt and purple velvet ballet leotards. Maybe he was too far on the conservative side for here. "Spell it, saddle," the counterman called to him without coming front. "Cola," he ordered. "With chickory, pecans and honey." "One sou'easter on the path," the counterman called out tiredly. "With you're going to sit there, He?" a liquid female voice flowed into his ear. "With I'm doing it, She," Malloy said, not turning. She eased around in front of the table. She was red-haired and built, wearing black leotards and a coat of black enamel. "Your pupils are going to wear me away," the redhead said. "I've only got eyes. How else can I read you?" "That is Truth. Tru-u-th." The counterman set out Malloy's drink. "It's waiting for you, saddle. Don't tease it or it'll bite." He went for the cola and brought it to the table. "You came back?" she said. He pulled up his chair. "I always come back. You can risk money on it. Saddle up?" "Saddle before the post, my touchstone." * * * * * The girl sat down. Her green eyes were moving, always moving, but mostly over Malloy, his chair, the table. "You going to keep possession here long?" "I don't know any reason why not," said Malloy. "Of course you don't!" she snapped. "Only--they close at five." "The billboard gives it two dozen hours a day." "They trim a little off at five. To sweep the floors and change the tableshrouds." "Change 'em from one table to another," Malloy jibed. "You formed it. Clean ones in front, dirty ones in the shadows. Let's try breathing air," she suggested. "Wait'll we gate up. I've got pecans to drink." The counterman's hawking laugh filled the room. "Let him wait, Mandy. I might as well wait to later to sweep it in." Her face caught fire for an instant. "The Board of Health don't go away just because you can read their dirty minds." "So take him out," the counterman snarled.