IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, which looked like a shower stall with halfheartedambition, Archer ditched his hat on the bed, tucked his satchel in the narrowcloset with two feeble hangers dangling from the wooden rod, and sat in theone chair by the one window. He parted the faded and frayed curtains andstared out at Reno. It just looked average, maybe a little below that, in fact.Yet maybe it punched above its weight, like he always tried to do.He smoked another Lucky and took a drink from the flask he carried inhis jacket pocket. Archer didn’t need beautiful women, watery wine, orgolden