O'Gatty slaps me with the hairy hand like a bear in a beer commercial, grabbing the microphone like Mean Mike crooning to a bombing mission. His rasping voice erupts in an electronic volcano of sound. It affects the guests the way thunder affects people who worship fire and paint on cave walls. Every time O'Gatty goes on the air he is God at the burning bush and the guests are Charlton Heston. But Godfrey doesn't respond. He is across the street on a barstool with a semi-erection, imagining how badly he wants to fuck Pretty Mary. In his place comes Security. Ah, Security. O'Gatty oozes as if no one could be more welcome than the guest who arrives instead of the lifeguard. His crash helmet is too large and Security stuffs it with newspaper. The crinkling drives him crazy, so he wears earplugs. He didn't know Chester was being paged or he wouldn't have come. His hair smells like the LA Times--and those are thimbles in his ears. Exotic in a peculiar way.

Pinned to his vest, a blank conventioneer's name tag; embossed on a broad black belt, the word SECURITY applied in electrician's tape. Before going into the Navy this man's name had been Joe, and Joe's most authoritative position had been Patrol Boy. Now he is an expert at weaving plastic fibers to make key chains--you either learn this craft in summer camp as a child, or in rehabilitation as a man of war. Security is Joe's secret code name. Everybody chuckles as he warns us that the world is cruel. Who knows how many died or why. An ordinary guy who charged hills and paid later. Sweetness checked him into the Blue Motel and out of his mind. Show no weakness in his face, Security hands over his log from the previous night:




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