As he limped to Fountain he wondered how he might be able to get one of those disposable cameras they sold in the shops along Hollywood Boulevard. It would be nice to have a few snapshots to take home with him. Maybe the sandy-haired man could help him with that. One more reason to hurry.

Morty was out with a DOPS agent named Zorya Vechernjaja, whom he described as a “crazy Russian babe who works the night shift and doesn’t go out during the day, but isn’t a vampire,” which to Coop sounded exactly like he was dating a vampire but didn’t want to admit it. Morty had met her the evening of the Babylon job. While Coop was busy bruising his knuckles on Nelson’s nose, Morty was chatting up a Slavic beauty, and Coop never even noticed. While she wasn’t quite human, Morty assured him that she didn’t have “hooves or fur or gills or anything.” How Morty was so intimate with her anatomy so quickly baffled Coop, but then most things that had to do with human interaction baffled him these days. Finding Giselle gone that morning had hit him hard. Hard enough that he was alone watching Forbidden Planet for the five hundredth time and waiting for a Meat Lover’s pizza, all on his own. No girls or boys or things that go bump in the night allowed.

At a little after eight, someone knocked. Coop took out a couple of twenties and went to answer the door. The disappointment he felt when he saw it wasn’t the pizza man was quickly replaced with a whirlwind of dizziness, confusion, and the mild vertigo he always experienced whenever his heart tripped over its own feet and banged its head into the furniture.

Standing in the doorway was Giselle.

He looked at her for a moment.

She looked at him.

Eventually, she raised her eyebrows. “You have to do something, Coop. Throw me out or let me in. There are mosquitoes and muggers out here.”

“We don’t have mosquitoes around here,” he said.

“All right. You caught me. I lied about the mosquitoes. Does that mean I have to go?”

“Nah. You can come in. But no more bug talk. I’m still having tarantula nightmares.”

“Tarantula Nightmare. You could start a band with that name.”

“No, thanks. Phil’s the singer around these parts.”

Coop stood aside and let her come in. She was still in conservative work clothes, but looked like a million bucks in heels.

“Morty’s place hasn’t changed much,” she said, making a circle of the room.

“Yeah. I’ve been a little busy working to find my own place.”

She shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Kind of seventies retro. I like it.”

“I’m not sure it’s retro so much as it’s what came with the place and Morty’s taken good care of it.”