The cell's hotel was situated just off of the Interstate, which sets the Trading Post Saloon only a couple blocks north of you. Easy money. The other bars, the El Rialto, the Drafthouse and Borracho's were all clustered downtown - a good 10-12 blocks west and slightly south of your current location.
As the sun sets, it begins to properly feel like autumn, the desert heat being cut like a knife. The small courtyard outside of your shared rooms isn't abandoned, a pizza delivery boy stands a few doors down from you exchanging his good for the occupant's money, a young woman with a long suffering face drags a shrieking eight year old to their room while the child throws a tantrum about not being able to go swimming, while two septuagenarians dressed in matching pink sweaters, with their hair dyed an eye searing hot pink and done up in beehives right out of the 1960s walk hand in hand with their little matching wheeled suitcases trailing behind them.