He watched the display as he evaluated whether or not he was going to have a headache, and when the throbbing in his temples started, conceded that he had no reason to expect to get off scot-free after a bunch of rotgut tequila and a few beers. Sylvia was already awake, moving around in the kitchen. He trundled to the bathroom, took two aspirin, and was somewhat relieved that the hangover was no more than a two or a three – not the nine- or ten-alarm blazes he used to have when he was really putting it away. And he hadn’t smoked, which always seemed to ratchet up the pain exponentially. He studied his reflection in the mirror and took in the slight jowls that were developing, the dusting of gray in his morning beard, the bloodshot eyes, and shook his head at the sight. What had he been thinking? What had Bobby? There were too many miles on the chassis. Maybe Bono or Johnny Depp could look like a million as they crossed from forty to fifty, but Black’s genes displayed a lifetime of bad decisions on his face like a map of the stars’ homes, and it wasn’t going in a positive direction.
