They drove Morty’s Bondomobile across town to the Sortilege Palms Hotel in Beverly Hills. Morty took them down Hollywood Boulevard so Coop could get reacquainted with the place. Coop had hardly seen daylight for eighteen months in the underground stir, and now that the sun was going down, he missed it. Until the lights came on. Streetlights. Flashing neon. Car headlights. The cool glow from shops and restaurants. They brought back memories of better days and he smiled. That is, until a kid in a souped-up Honda Civic ran a red light at Highland and almost T-boned them. Morty hit the brakes and the car skidded by the Hollywood Wax Museum and Guinness World Records Museum, stopping in front of the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Odditorium. Coop looked up at the tyrannosaurus model on the roof and then at Morty.

“Woo! That was something, huh?” Morty said.

Coop didn’t say anything.

“You okay?” said Morty.

“Did you ever get the feeling that something was trying to kill you?”

“Like what?”

“This city.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“We almost died.”

“Don’t look at it so negative. The good news is we lived.”

Coop watched a couple cross the street in front of them. They stared at the Corvette in shorts, sandals, and matching University of Vicksburg T-shirts and for a fraction of a second Coop felt better. Maybe he was destined to die under the fading shadow of a plastic dinosaur surrounded by pickpockets, hookers, and panhandlers, but at least he’d never been to Mississippi. That was something. Coop released his death grip on the dashboard and lit one of Morty’s horrible cigarettes. When he blew out the smoke he said to Morty, “If you ever see me in a matching T-shirt with a woman—any woman—shoot me. Okay?”

Morty nodded.

“You didn’t have to ask. I’d have done it on principle.”

“Thank you.”

“I know a cry for help when I see it.”

The Sortilege Palms Hotel sat huge on a man-made rise in Beverly Hills. There were turrets, towers, and a drawbridge out front along with neon palm trees that blew in an imaginary wind.

“It looks like Dracula’s castle and Disneyland had an ugly baby,” said Coop. “If they’re going for a King Arthur thing, what’s with the palm trees?”

“What can I say?” said Morty. “A lot of these rich types, they like tacky.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like parking a Space Shuttle in front of a log cabin.”

“What are you telling me for? Put something in the suggestion box. I’m sure they give the tiniest rat’s ass about what people like us think.”

Morty steered the Corvette into the long, curving driveway. The bellhop who came to take the keys was dressed like a court jester. He looked at the car like it was Kryptonite.