What the hell had happened to him? It was this last stretch in jail that did it. Not Morty’s betrayal so much as, well, everything. He wasn’t young anymore, a crook on the rise. He wasn’t old, but he’d done enough time that the stink of it wouldn’t wash off easily, like Rodney’s heady aroma still on his damned fingers.

In this line of work, Coop thought, you’re either going up or you’re going out. Or down in the ground. I’m not ready for that one yet. I just need to think. Hole up somewhere and get my head together.

He got off the bus across from the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard. At the Chinese Theater, a Jack Sparrow wannabe was accosting a couple of red-faced midwestern types, trying to charm them into taking a picture with him. One they’d have to pay him for, of course. There was a Spider-Man in a costume baggy with sweat and a Wonder Woman with bloodshot booze eyes redder than her fraying boots. In all, it was pretty depressing and made Coop wonder if coming to the Boulevard was a good idea after all.

He took Morty’s cigarettes out of his pocket and dug around in the plastic bag with his stuff in it until he found his lighter. He thumbed it and got a spark, but no flame. He shook it a couple of times and still nothing.

It’s been sitting in a box for a year and a half, moron, he thought.

Coop looked around. One thing about the Boulevard: it didn’t lack for cheap shops. He went into a tourist trap with mini-Oscars in the window and Walk of Fame T-shirts where you could write your own name on a star. Inside, he found a display of plastic lighters. All they had left were Wizard of Oz ones. Dorothy and Toto on one side and the Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Woodman on the other, grinning like they all went on vacation together and got lobotomies instead of tribal tattoos.

It took him a while digging in his bag before he found the change to pay for the lighter. Long enough that it got embarrassing. He put the money on the counter and left without waiting for change. When he came out of the store, Morty was waiting by the curb.

“Wow,” he said. “Did you pay for that all at once or are you renting?”

“I have money,” said Coop.

“I can tell. That’s good-quality plastic.”

It was more pathetic pretending he was flush than admitting he was screwed, Coop knew, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“You owe me eighteen months of my life,” he said.

Morty lightly rapped a knuckle on a No Parking sign.

“I know, man. I also owe you eighteen months’ worth of drinks.”

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.”