"What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out there."
"I'm a tourist," I said. "They told me before I left home not to miss it."
He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got in. He flipped his flag down, started up with a clash of gears and pulled out without looking.
"How far is it?" I asked him.
"It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter."
"Pretty big place, I guess."
He didn't answer.
We went through a warehousing district, swung left along the waterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and pulled up at a nine-foot cyclone fence with a locked gate.
"A buck ten," my driver said.
I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant group of low buildings. "What's this?"