But his hearing was hollow and tinny, probably about rightor an eighty-our-year-old man.
You’re not human.
No shit, he thought, moving his shoulders. The blades stillached where Anas had ripped the wings rom his back. Yet when he inally looked up rom his empty plate, theheadache dogging him was gone, and he almost elt a part o the world. So, belching lightly, he got down to the business o locating Ms. Craig.The map alone didn’t help; Sarge had been right about that.But a journey was rarely a straight shot rom point A to pointB. It was the landmarks and details that made all the dier-ence. The bent street sign and the shity-eyed man leaningagainst it. The car parked in the wrong direction on a residen-tial street.
The intricate brick face on the Strip-side bungalow where he’d died
. Yeah, details he remembered.Fortunately, the waitress wasn’t so comatose that shecouldn’t point out the diner’s location, south o Sunrise Moun-tain just o o Boulder Highway. Outside the window, sel-storage units rose like tombstones rom each side o the street,and trailer parks squatted behind those. So he knew where he was but still not where he was going.Vegas’s streets hadn’t changed that much, he thought,squinting at the black-and- white grid. Though there werecertainly more o them. And the place sprawled like it couldgo on orever. He remembered a time when the Boys tried topay their entertainers in real estate. The talent had laughedand held out their hand or hard coin instead. Who, they said, would want to own land in this gloriied litter box?