How Like an Angel

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All night and most of the day they had been driving, through mountains, and desert, and now mountains again. The old car was beginning to act skittish, the driver was getting

irritable, and Quinn, to escape both, had gone to sleep in the back seat. He was awakened by the sudden shriek of brakes and Newhouser’s voice, hoarse from exhaustion and the heat and the knowledge that once more he’d made a fool of himself at the tables.

“This is it, Quinn. The end of the line.”

Quinn stirred and turned his head, expecting to find himself on one of the tree-lined streets of San Felice, with the ocean glittering in the distance like a jewel not to be touched or sold. Even before he opened his eyes he knew something was wrong. No city street was so quiet, no sea air so dry.

“Hey, Quinn. You awake?”

“Yes.”

“Well, flake off, will you? I’m in a hurry.”

Quinn looked out of the window. The scenery hadn’t changed since he’d gone to sleep. There were mountains and more mountains and still more, all covered with the same scrub oak and chaparral, manzanita and wild holly, and a few pines growing meagerly from the parched earth.

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