Coleman exhaled another huge hit out the window. “You know all those new malls that are made to look old? And how instead of inside, all the store entrances are outside, and everyone walks around fake brick courtyards getting sweaty, and you can’t find a place to park for shit unless it’s a mile away, and by then you forgot what you came to buy and now just want a taco, but have to settle for elephant ears at the county fair until the guards smell your weed behind the Tilt-A-Whirl, and you’re exhausted by the time you escape back to the parking lot and decide to go to the mall. I am really, really high.”
“Just keep that joint down.”
“I want to buy something,” said Coleman. “You sure it’s not a mall?”
“Fairly certain.” Serge held an encased, circa 1960 postcard up to the windshield for roadside comparison. “Ever seen that commercial about your brain on drugs?”
“I love that commercial.” Coleman fired up another number. “It’s a scream if you’re toasted. ‘Look, my brain’s an egg!’ I’m hungry. Do we have any eggs ?”
“I’m trying to concentrate,” said Serge.
“I’m trying to study,” said Story.
“I’ll look for eggs,” said Coleman.
The riverfront road swung south onto Avenida Menendez. Tourists jammed sidewalks and narrow alleys. A horse pulled a carriage of Norwegians with disposable cameras. Coleman toked; Story highlighted her textbook; Serge held up a postcard. Nothing matched. He checked the satellite photo and clicked through a View-Master reel. No hits. “I could swear it’s around here somewhere.”
“We just passed a place with eggs.”
“I’ve definitely driven too far.” Serge made a U, retracing his route north.
Coleman pointed out the window again. “Now I know where we are. There are those giant cats that scared the piss out of me last time.”
“The Bridge of Lions,” said Serge.
“But they’re just statues made of stone. Why was I so scared?”
“You were on mescaline.”
“That would do it,” said Coleman. “Once the phone rang and it was after dark before I came out from under the bed.”
“Coleman!” snapped Story, gesturing with annoyance at the book she was trying to read.
“Sorry.” He turned to Serge. “What are you looking for?”
“Site of the famous Monson Motor Lodge.”
“What’s that?”
Story clapped her book shut in frustration. “Martin Luther King Jr. was arrested during a sit-in at the Monson.” She reached for her organizer and a term-paper rough draft. “June 11,1964.”
“Resulting publicity broke a House filibuster,” said Serge. “Paving the way for passage of the historic Civil Rights Act.”
“Senate filibuster,” said Story.
Serge adjusted his underwear to accommodate the growing bulge.
Coleman tapped an ash. “So what’s with the postcard and photos?”
“The Monson was demolished, but I was able to get this old postcard of the motel off eBay, which I triangulated to within a three-block range with my vintage View-Master collection. Then I went on Google Earth at the library and hovered over the resulting target zone looking for landmarks.”
“Find anything?”
Serge unscrewed the top of a thermos. “They razed the motel, and never in a million years would I have recognized the new one. Except they kept the original pool and built around it. Must have been cost prohibitive to rip it out.” He tapped a kidney-shaped spot on the satellite photo. “The configuration is distinctive, and it’s the only pool on the strip that sits up against the sidewalk, just off the west end of the last palm tree-lined median strip.”
“So why can’t you find it?”
Serge chugged straight from his thermos and threw up the other hand. “That’s what I don’t understand.”
“We’re passing the fort again,” said Coleman.
Serge pounded the steering wheel with his forehead. “This is bullshit!” He made a skidding U-turn and headed back. “I triple-checked all my calculations and sources, so the only possible answer is enemy action.”
“Dear God,” said Coleman. “Who do you think’s behind it?”
“Someone who’s going to pay.” Serge killed the rest of his thermos, pulled a 9mm automatic from under the driver’s seat and racked the slide.
Story looked up from the backseat. “Want me to tell you where it is?”
“No!”
“It’ll save you all this silly driving back-and-forth.”
“Please,” Serge said patronizingly, holding a gun in one hand, looking through a View-Master and driving with his elbows. “Doesn’t it look like I know what I’m doing?”
Story shrugged and turned a page.
The Javelin drove up and down the strip five more times, Serge punching the dashboard, clawing upholstery and ripping down ceiling fabric.
“Fuck it,” said Story. “I can’t take this stupidness anymore. It’s the Hilton. They put up a tall cement privacy wall. That’s why you could see the pool in the aerial photo but not from the street.”
Serge stopped at a red light, wiping bloody knuckles on a towel and squinting into the rearview. “You just couldn’t stand to see me having fun.”
Mahoney had gone bloodhound.
The smell was all Serge.
