Chapter Three

Micky and Davy woke up just as the car got three miles from El Monotono. They were all quiet, lost in their thoughts—all, that is, except the Monkeemobile herself. She began to cough just as they rolled into the town.

“Great, just great,” Mike grumbled. “Just what we needed!”

Micky whispered, “Hold together, girl, hold together . . . ”

Hold together she did . . . for about five more minutes. Then she rattled to a wheezing stop, letting out one more mechanical sigh as if in apology. Mike sighed, turning the key and pulling it out even though the engine was dead. “Well, there it is,” he groaned as he crawled out from behind the wheel.

Muttering something nobody could quite pick up, Micky vaulted out and popped the hood, leaning in and promptly losing the entire upper part of his body in it.

Davy nudged Mike. “Hey.” He pointed. “Looks like the Monkeemobile’s having a Dolenz snack.”

Mike crossed his arms, casually scanning the village as he waited for Micky’s verdict. Micky swore in Spanish and stood up.

“Well?”

“Want the whole list, or just the top five?”

“The whole list, Mick,” Mike said.

He sighed. “Radiator’s gone dry as a bone. There’s a hole in it. Gasket’s worn. Looks like we’re low on oil and there’s something in the spark plugs I can’t quite see.” He sighed. “There’s more, but that’s the major stuff.”

Mike turned, scanning the village with more care. It looked like a throwback to an earlier time—and matched his dream perfectly. His hope for finding a modern auto garage fell and shattered as a tumbleweed blew by.

Micky went on, “We’re gonna have to find some pesetas if we’ve any hope of doing anything to her.”

Mike pulled out his wallet. “I got nothin’.”

Micky sighed. “Me either.”

Peter pulled a crumpled five dollar bill from his pocket. “For emergencies,” he said with a smile.

Davy was patting his pockets. “Be nice if I could find my wallet.” Peter moved his other hand out from behind his back, handing the slim leather square to Davy with a wide, mischievous grin. Davy cocked his head. “Don’t do that.” But he was smiling as he pulled out a ten. “That’s it.”

“Fifteen bucks,” Mike said. “That might be enough to get the parts we need to fix the car, but we’ll still have to find someplace to stay tonight. And we need to eat.”

“How about that cantina?” Davy nodded toward it. “Maybe we can sing for our supper.”

Mike looked at it, perusing it for a few moments. “Sounds like a plan. Worse comes to worse we’ll get thrown out and we’ll sleep in the car.” He wrinkled his nose, plainly not thrilled with that prospect.

Peter was already moving toward the trunk. “Which shirts?” he called out. They already all wore charcoal pants—they’d not planned it; it had just worked out that way.

“Blue,” Mike said. Peter nodded and began to get them out.

Mike warily glanced at the short, grinning man who approached them, pulling off his sombrero as he smiled ingratiatingly. His clothes were the ragged garb of a peasant, and his unruly black hair framed a round, mobile face.

“Hello?” Davy asked warily.

“Si?” the man said. “I cannot help but notice you are having trouble with your car?”

“Yeah,” Mike said.

“It died on us,” Davy added.

“Oh, that is too bad,” the man said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I can fix it for you!” he added, the sorrowful look quickly replaced by a wide grin.

“Yeah?” Micky asked warily.

The man nodded enthusiastically. “Si!”

“How much?”

The man scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, señors . . . I cannot tell you that now. I will have to take a look.”

Micky gestured. “C’mon. Look.”

Mike and Peter changed into their shirts while Micky and the ‘mechanic’ haggled under the hood over what was wrong and how much it would cost. Mike leaned on the car, his arms crossed. They were in El Monotono—they were where they were supposed to be, but . . . his neck wasn’t tingling and his senses weren’t aroused. And that alone disturbed him much more than if they had been.

“Ordinary in its mundaneness,” Peter quipped softly.

“I don’t like it,” Mike murmured. “I was so sure something would happen . . . and I still feel like it is, but . . . ” He sighed.

“They’ve not lied to us yet. I doubt they have now.”

“Yeah. I just don’t like this waitin’.”

“I understand.”