Around him, the desert bloomed as he'd never imagined it could. A haze of lavender colored the land near the horizon, and clumps of red and gold along the roadside blurred past him. Steel gray thunderclouds were already gathering again, and it had begun to mist, but the wind kept his goggles swept clear. Diaz leaned forward across the handlebars to lower his wind resistance and get a few more miles an hour out of the babe. Salt Lake City was no place to crash and burn. It was too flat, too much salt water. Too many negatory vibes in the air. But Denver, he was thinking, let me just get to Denver. Drops of rain hit his ears like bullets. He had taken too long, screwed around too much in Winnemucca with an ex-whore he'd met, stayed long after his feet had healed up from a sixty-mile skate after the Indian threw a rod, spent too many cooled-out evenings on the top floor of the Winnemucca Hilton watching the rain make the desert bloom and drinking black rum with Jan-Louise, burning money in the fireplace to keep warm, smoking Cadillac joints and writing poetry.
