It had taken about a week of sweltering Las Vegas summer for Tom to decide against stashing his money in mail envelopes in his underwear. True as it is that the desert heat is, as they say, a dry heat, having a tight packet of heavy paper pressed firmly against the skin of one’s ass and/or thighs is hardly a pleasurable experience on a 115°F day (or, rather, 46°C, as it was and would always be for Tom). Summer heat in Rome is a moist veil that covers the city—a wetness that alters shapes and textures, a psychedelic prankster that makes inanimate objects sweat and the world go sticky. The sun in Vegas has no sense of humor whatsoever. It is a hyperefficient oven that leaves the world well done and juiceless. A wallet seemed like a reasonable compromise.