Cash came out of the tunnel onto the highway to the south coast. Said to James Roach, ‘You like jazz?’
‘Haven’t heard that much.’
Cash tapped a button on the console, said, ‘Play Art Blakey.’
Let it wash over the both of them for a few minutes, some blazing trumpet.
James said, ‘I like it, yeah; that trumpet is going off.’
Cash smiled. He liked this guy.
They made it in two hours. Google Maps directed them to the end of a lane where the gates stood blocking their entry. Angie had given him a code for the gate. Cash got out the car and punched the numbers into the keypad. The gates slowly opened inwards. He got back in the car, drove through.
What he saw was a modest beach shack. A small white weatherboard house. He had been expecting some kind of architect-designed house worth a min
