Doc ended up sticking around till closing time and watched Coy getting into the sinister Mercury woodie that had chased Doc down the canyon the other night. He walked down to the Arizona Palms and had the All-Nighter Special, then sat through the dawn reading the paper and waited out the morning rush hour at a window with a downhill view into the smoglight, the traffic reduced to streams of reflective trim, twinkling ghostly along the nearer boulevards, soon vanishing into brown bright distance. It wasn't so much Coy he kept cycling back to as Hope, who believed, with no proof, that her husband hadn't died, and Amethyst, who ought to have something more than fading Polaroids to go to when she got them little-kid blues.
Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice (2009)
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