— This writer lived here? He’s everywhere.
— You bet. Hiding from the American authorities.
— What did he do?
— Accidentally shot his wife in the head.
— How do you accidentally do that?!
— Playing William Tell. Aimed for the apple, missed.
— You really know how to find places.
We’ve checked into Burroughs’s old motel. The room looks like nothing’s changed since the fifties — his portrait on the wall, a wardrobe, a sink. Downstairs there’s the Tangerine bar, bass thumping up through the floor.
It’s one a.m. I’m lying here, looking at the moon through the window, thinking:
I always get what I want. One way or another.