The Fiends hustle him to the door and walk him out to the future site of Sunset Estates. Bob releases him when they’re beyond the reach of the disco’s lights. Darren straightens his clothes and smooths his hair, figures cocky’s how he’ll play this.

“Fiends,” he says. “I’ve heard of you.”

“We haven’t heard of you,” Bob says.

“I’m a city mouse. New York, Philly, Boston. And I keep to myself.”

“What are you doing here, city mouse?”

“I’m on my way to San Diego to see a pal.”

“And the chick?”

“Some local chippie.”

Darren takes some Doublemint out of his pocket, pulls a stick for himself, and holds the pack out to the Fiends. Johnny pinches a piece.

“How long you been in town?” Bob says.

Darren unwraps the gum and sticks it in his mouth. “This is my third night.”

“Seen any other rovers?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? Nobody’s traveling with you?”

“I told you, I keep to myself.”

The Fiends exchange heavy glances.

“You said you heard of us,” Bob says.

“This and that,” Darren says.

“Like what?”

“Like steer clear of you.”

“Good advice.”

Pedro has slipped behind Darren. He slaps a hand over his mouth, and Bob stabs him in the heart. They’ve dusted him ten seconds after he hits the ground. Johnny paws through the ash, retrieving the guy’s wallet and puka-shell necklace.

“We going back in?” he says.

“Fuck it,” Bob says. “Let’s see what other shitholes we can find.”

Antonia and Elijah have passed through Phoenix once or twice a year since before Arizona was a state. The first time they visited, they rode in on horseback. They’ve watched the city grow from a dusty cluster of saloons, dance halls, and assay offices into a sprawl of suburbs that’s filled the valley with shopping malls, golf courses, and housing developments.

And now the powers that be are pulling down old Phoenix. Every time Antonia and Elijah return, more downtown landmarks have been demolished and replaced with smoked-glass-and-concrete high-rises. The Fox Theater is now a bus terminal, the cheap hotel where they used to stay is a gleaming Hyatt, and their favorite chop suey joint lies buried beneath a new convention center.

The area used to be prime hunting ground: the whores working the Paris Alley brothels, the sots pickling themselves in the dives lining the streets of the Deuce, and the assorted other lost souls who haunted the gambling dens, topless grinds, and all-night movie theaters. Ragged men and women still drink, fight, and fuck here, but now it’s right out in the open, and when they crash, it’s not in dollar flops or cots at the mission, it’s on the sidewalk, curled in cardboard boxes in the shadow of the new buildings.