CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The older I get, the more I appreciate the quiet life. When you have enough nights like the one I was having—where innocent people’s lives were needlessly at stake, my neighbor’s third eye was open, and I somehow narrowly avoided death—you suddenly want a vacation. You want to get in your car and drive like hell as far away from home and to nowhere in particular. You want to park your car at a hotel, throw your keys at the valet attendant, and tell ‘em you don’t care if you ever see the damn car again because you’re staying as long as you want and you don’t need keys. At least, that was how I liked to romanticize what I was going to do when this night was over.
The valets in front of the casino looked at us in the same way I imagined they would in my daydreams as we
