In Arnie’s Bar across the street from City Hall, I’m feeling quite wonderful, sipping a well-crafted Sazerac. Absinthe haunts it with licorice and bitter. Arnie is a gadget nut; his collection obscures the mirror behind the bar. Its star is an electronic television that must have cost a fortune; its window is six inches across. It’s not doing anything, of course; there hasn’t been a broadcast in New Wroxeter for months. By way of compensation, a giant aquamarine candle is flickering on top of it.

Some of his gadgets really work. The Capehart 400 can change records and turn them over, too. It’s belting out a tune.

Some people call me a junker
‘cause I’m loaded all the time
I just feel happy
And I feel good all the time

That’s just wrong. I’m never more than six hours from hell. And now that word’s gotten out, I’ll be ruined any day. A whooshing sound and a pulse of orange light erupt behind the bar. Fire!

People stampede for the door. No getting stuck in that mob; I throw a chair through the window.