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Good gravy Not only is washed-up minor league phenom Elmer Mulroy out in the very worst way, he's still breezing around the same old no-tell. The one a way out where the high desert takes over and even Vegas's blazing outskirts fade to black. The one where not even a naked showgirl and a pile of blow can kill the bitter taste of a shipwrecked dream. And we're not talking to a degree; no, we're talking every last staggering iota of him. As any sensible dust-to-duster might say, talk about going from bad to worse Why, it's gotten so a guy can't depend on anything anymore, resting in peace included. There's only one way to sort it all out now, though: nothing less than a pell-mell odyssey through a pretty darned checkered career, if not human history itself. And that's without even mentioning all the real deadbeats a pretty irked spook is all but bound to bump into when it comes to slipping his titanic tootsies back into the old snowshoes and embarking on anything that drastic.
