The weathered walls of the old houses were pocked with bullet holes, scribbled with sketches and messages in spray paint. Contributions from visitors to this dead town, making a playground of its carcass.

Many of the yards were bordered by broken-down fences. Along with cactus and brush, Larry saw pieces of old furniture in front of some houses: a sofa, a couple of cane chairs, an aluminum lawn chair with its frame twisted crooked. One house had a bathtub off to the side. Another had an overturned bathroom toilet that looked as if it had been the subject of target practice. The rusted hood of a car was leaning against a porch. Nearby lay a couple of tires, and Larry recalled the abandoned, tireless car he’d seen a few minutes ago.

“Isn’t exactly Beverly Hills, huh?” Pete remarked.

“Love it,” Larry said.

“Gee, and we forgot our spray cans,” Jean said. “How can we properly deface the place without our paint?”

“We could shoot it up some.” Pete reached beneath his seat and came up with a revolver. It was sheathed in a beltless holster. Larry recognized it as the .357 Smith & Wesson that he’d fired a few times when they’d gone shooting last month. A beauty.

“Put that away,” Barbara said. “For godsake.”

“Just kidding around. Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

As he concealed the handgun under his seat, Barbara said, “Men and their toys.”

Pete swung the van off the road and stopped beside a pair of gasoline pumps. He beeped the horn a couple of times as if signaling for service.

“God,” Barbara muttered.

“Hey, wouldn’t it be something if a guy showed up?”