“O.K., yeah, I do,” I said.

“It’s the sniff house of choice. Bigger than it looks. Most popular,” Raf said.

“Oh.”

He said, “Kids can do glue or aerosols or shine in there. They come out pretty goofy.”

“I don’t thank you for showing me this,” I said. “And probably the Chamber of Commerce is smart not to mention it in the tour catalogue.”

“Keep going,” Raf said. “On up to that parking lot.”

The lot stretched out behind a movie theater named The Lido Six. Abandoned trash dumpsters, filled and fenced over with kudzu, blocked the theater’s rear-exit doors.

“You go through those doors into the theater and inside . . .”

“I don’t go through those doors,” I said, gunning out of the lot. The tires made static noises crossing the lot. Broken glass was strewn everywhere; glass ground fine as rock salt.

“No, but I have,” Raf said. “And inside is the Church of Sun and Flowers. There’s a room in the basement with twenty or thirty people sitting around in the dark. Some have been there for days, weeks; they never want to leave.”

A blond bundle like a long duffel bag lay ahead in the cement road.

“Is this a dead man?” I asked Raf. I slowed the car and closed my eyes. “I’m sure he’s dead. He looks rumbled over by trucks. We have to do something.”

“Stop when you get to him, but keep the motor running,” Raf said.

He kicked open his door and leaned out over the figure. “Umm, he’s not dead. He’s resting.”

I clunked the car into gear and drove. On Dahlia, we passed a clutch of sick-looking boys in ponchos and felt hats.

“They been to the movies,” Raf said. “Now, you wanna go to the MFA?”

“No, I’m out of the mood. What I really want to do is get into the fetal position and suck my thumb.”

“Yeah, I know. Especially when you figure that’s eighty percent of the fuckin’ world. The palace is surrounded,” he said. “The serfs are plenty pissed.”

“I haven’t asked what errand took you into that theater- church place.”

“No, and don’t,” he said, tapping out the last drink from his flask.

We went by a boarded-up nightclub and a boarded-up cabana, both behind razor-wire fencing. “Trevino Bail Bonds” was the cabana’s business. The nightclub had a sun-whitened sign that read: “GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!”

“Where Pru used to work,” Raf said.

“Something else I will never ever ask about,” I said.

We sat on café chairs at a little table in a club called The Yellow Man. Raf had skinned off his shirt and wore only his black jeans. His tanned bare chest was damp, as the bar had a couple floor fans but no real air conditioning.