So far no one had questioned my presence on the block. I got out, retrieved the orange plastic cones, and returned them to my car – this by way of being prepared for whatever might come next. I resumed my reading with the help of a penlight I dug out of my bag. At intervals I glanced up, but the house remained quiet and nobody entered or left. At 9:40, prison-strength exterior spots came on, flooding the driveway with harsh white light. Misty emerged from the house, leaving lights on behind her as she got in her tank-size Ford and backed out of the drive. I waited fifteen seconds, fired up the VW, and followed.

Once we reached the first intersection, there was sufficient traffic to provide cover, though I didn't think she had any reason to suspect she was being tailed. She drove sedately, refraining from any abrupt or tricky moves that would indicate a concern about the thirteen-year-old pale blue VW traveling three car lengths behind.

We proceeded into town. She took a right on East 4th and after half a block turned into a small city parking lot that sat between an Asian restaurant and a minimarket with a marquee that read: GROCERIES * BEER * SLOTS. I slowed and pulled over to the curb. I left the engine running while I spread out my Reno map and studied the layout. I don't know why I went to such trouble to disguise my purposes. Misty didn't seem to be aware of me and certainly no one else in Reno cared if I was lost. I watched her enter the minimarket and took advantage of her absence to pull into the same lot. I parked as close to the entrance as I could manage. Each space was numbered in paint, and a board posted on the brick wall of the market indicated that fees were paid on the honor system. Dutifully, I searched out the requisite window and inserted the number of dollar bills I thought would cover my stay. I was so engrossed in this display of municipal virtue that I didn't spot Misty until she was halfway across the street, munching a candy bar. She had a carton of cigarettes under one arm.

Her destination lay dead ahead, an adult-entertainment establishment called the Flesh Emporium. Under the double row of lightbulbs spelling out the name of the place, a blinking neon sign flashed: GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS... NUDE, LEWD, AND CRUDE. And in smaller letters:

TATTOOS AND PIERCING DONE WHILE YOU WAIT. And smaller still: BOOKS, VIDEOS, LIVE REVUES. The bouncer waved her in. I waited a decent interval and then crossed the street. There was a twenty-dollar cover charge that it grieved me to pay, but I ponied up the cash. I made a note to myself to add it to my expense account in a manner that didn't suggest play-for-pay sex.