They laugh too, just as gently, their quiet eyes crawling over the sight of her body, far above.

"Thass my chick," whispers Chester.

"Cool it, daddy," says Bartholomew, slipping into a pair of dark glasses and touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. "That skirt is private property."

"You boys may walk and talk," says Ozzie, "but you don play. You don play with Rio's girl."

Suddenly, angry words and clenched fists erupt from the proud, quiet millions that flood the streets. Suddenly, a roar like the roar of lions rises up and buffets the girl in blue, the girl on the balcony. She laughs again, for she knows that they are fighting for her.

A figure appears on the balcony, next to the girl. The figure is a man, and he too is dressed in blue. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it began, the fighting ceases.

"My God," whispers Chester, his cheeks gone pale, "what am I doing out here?"

"Maybe I got the D.T.s," whispers Bartholomew, "but maybe I don't...." He sits down on the curb and rubs his head in disbelief.

Oswald does not speak. His shame is the greatest. He slinks into the darkness of an alley and briefly wishes for an overcoat.

The pride of lion cubs has been routed, and now they scatter, each one scrambling for his private den of security, each one lost in a wild and nameless fear. In twos and threes and twenties they rush back to their homes, their wives, their endless lives.

Far above, in the apartment with the balcony, a man in blue is chiding a girl in blue.

"That was scarcely reasonable, Dorothy."

"But Daddy, you promised to let me have them for the entire night!"

"Yes, but...."

"I wasn't really going to let them hurt themselves! Really, I wasn't!"

"But, Dorothy—you know these things can get out of hand."

"Oh, but Daddy, you know how I adore strong, quiet, proud men. Rebellious men like Marlon."

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