Chapter 3
SMITH cut the asthmatic Plymouth into the curb and stopped. He looked at the shacks a quarter-mile away, in the center of the vast, empty lots.
"So that's your Hooverville."
Dusty took his feet off the dashboard. "Yep. This is as close as we can get."
They stepped out of the car and, with a piece of chalk, Dusty drew a small triangle atop one of the fenders.
"What's that for?" asked Cellini.
"Don't you want your tires to be here when you get back?"
They began picking their way through the rubble. Cellini said: "There were a lot of little pockets sewed into the lining of Meade's clothes. What do you think he carried in them?"
Dusty shrugged.
"Us guys have to travel light and we can always use pockets. Maybe the gazooney knows about them."
"What's a gazooney?"
"A young t
