“Drive.”
“Okay,” I said. “Where do they live?”
“San Robles.”
“That’s way out,” I told her.
“Not so far. Listen, Donald, you going to let me pay the check?”
“Nope. It’s my party.”
“It’s mine.”
“Mine,” I said.
I summoned the waiter and paid the check. We walked a block to a parking lot and she gave me the ticket. I walked down with the attendant when he went to get the car and looked at the certificate of registration fastened to the column of the steering wheel. It showed the car was registered in the name of Dover Fulton, and the address was 6285 Orange Avenue, San Robles.
So far everything checked. That bothered me. In keeping with the picture, that car should have been as hot as a firecracker.