We didn’t suspect anything was wrong until we reached Santa Monica. As soon as we turned off the freeway, we were shrouded in thick, cold fog, like one big gray cotton swab. Everywhere.
“Damn!” said Jim. I said worse. A beach isn’t much good in the fog.
We drove around trying to find John and Bill, but there was no trace.
“Are you hungry?” asked Jim.
“I’m always hungry,” I answered.
“Pull in over there…”
Over there was Olivia’s Place, a rundown diner politely described as funky. The outside was old, faded pink, inside was old, faded green. There was a tapestry of JFK over the cash register, a faded landscape on the wall, a shiny jukebox. plastic booths, and a menu written in pencil.