JOHNNY COMA RETRACED the path he had taken west as part of a threesome. Now he was one.
There was a sweet MGB roadster, in ebony green, which had been sitting down the slope at the Panamint Springs gas station all day and into the morning. Hey, dibs. Johnny came down to examine it. The keys were in the ignition. Hey, double-dibs. Johnny Coma in his sweet two-seater all shiny took off at a nice curve-hugging speed back east on the 190.
He drove in a blind fugue. He was racing the sunset.
He left the higher green and gained warmth, dropping down to the salt playa as it shimmered in his rear-view mirror. Vivienne had worn coyote skin there.
Johnny climbed to Towne Peak – the sparkling black-green car close to his body, nice handling – and down at sea level Stovepipe Wells appeared, glints
