From Half World:

            He uses the last of his change to get on a bus, heading north, then east across the city, the morning sun topping the hills, throwing light across the dry yellow slopes, the gray freeways cutting between. He rides longer than he needs to, changing buses, sitting with his head against the window, keeping an eye on everyone who gets aboard.

            He has an address on the northeast side of the city. He has a photograph of a woman about his own age. She’s tall, thin. Her face is partially concealed by a camera as she takes a picture of a couple of runaways smoking against the outside wall of a post office. 

            He gets off on a long boulevard just shy of Pasadena, an east-west storefront strip crammed with liquor stores, clothing shops, Mexican restaurants. Late morning, the sun high and bright. His eyes and mouth are dry. He reaffixes his sunglasses. He needs a drink.

            He could still run. He is out in the world and maybe they are watching him but he could still try to run, screaming in the daylight. But that would mean leaving this woman. It would mean letting the Sons take this woman, knowing what they will do to her. 

            He needs a drink. If he has a drink, or two, he can pull himself together. There’s a bar across the street. There’s always a bar. Looks like a Mexican pool hall. There’s always a bar and there’s always someone inside to talk to, to flatter and charm, someone whose desperation for company matches his own desperation for a drink. An even exchange, maybe. Almost even.

            Dickie touches the edge of the photo with a lit match, watches it curl and burn, the flame licking down to the tips of his fingers.