Dell’s place was located on a side street off the north end of Ocean Highway. Little more than a shack, the small building cowered behind a row of tall marsh grasses. In an apparent attempt to make the place look more like a California or Florida resort, the owner had planted a hapless palm tree in the yard. The plant thrust its way upward, but it was dying, its dry brown fronds drooping listlessly despite the breeze.
A small walkway poked through a gap in the overgrown grass. I plunged through and approached the door.
