O'Gatty salutes and files the log in a folder maintained for Security's sake. Also for Security's sake, O'Gatty tells me that without Security we would all be less safe. Security straightens his back as much as the drugs allow and returns the salute, thrusting considerable underbite for a determined chin. His knuckles sting when he slaps his face guard, but he shows no pain. He eyeballs corners and walls as we walk out of the office. Security's gait is measured. On the akimbo patio he leans over the picnic bench, palming his weight, inspecting its strength. He glances suspiciously through the fence. Several rubber balls are rotting in dead water. We've got the know-how and we've got the initiative. There's nothing we can't do. I follow Security's gaze up to the second floor, I see Dudley squatting on the balcony with his arms locked around his knees. His pallid face meets the sun, eyes closed. He is thinner and less self-assured than before, but if he let his hair grow, he could pass for himself.

What's your name, he asks when I introduce myself again and tell him to knock it off. He doesn't remember me, which is just as well. Our new man, Security says proudly. He paints our girls for us. Yeah, well don't ever let him do the talking. Up from the volcanic courtyard on the crippled stairs the twins are hedging toward us, hands pocketed in coveralls. May and June are twisted knickers over Dudley, but during their brief introduction Dudley manages to vanish. An Arctic chill sweeps over him at the mention of his name. Now a pair of eyes stare up from the gutter through a rainbow Chevron leaked: tire treads stain the beatnik hair, dyed black, ironed flat, and battered. Her name is Shirley--phone number on the back, now in Dudley's pocket . He wears Socco's tuxedo tails, won pitching pennies in the hallway between their rooms. Passing Nick's, Dudley waves at the dark inside the purple windows, in case Nick is on the other side. In Greece you drink looking out; in America you drink looking in.



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