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.