In the meantime I’ve got four-plus hours to kill, and my body’s screaming for sleep. With my brain fogged like this, I know I’ll start making mistakes if I don’t get some rest. Right now. But where? The Wenonah’s out, and showing up at a flophouse hotel might attract too much of the wrong kind of attention. (How tough would it be for Blake to spread the word to all back-alley dosses in the sprawl—there aren’t that many of them, after all—saying to call such and such a number if a slag matching my description shows up, five hundred nuyen in it for you? Not tough at all.) Luckily I do have a least one contact the Cutters don’t know about, and I should be able to parlay it into a doss to crash in. I find another pay phone—this one still under the Alaskan Way viaduct, but up nearer Madison—and place the call.