At the spy compound, I'm trying to find a place to sleep. In despair I creep into a shower stall. Woken again, I sneak off to visit my family, who happen to be spending the weekend at a beachfront hotel nearby. One of the security guards there looks suspiciously familiar: he must be a double agent. On the way back from dinner, we crane our necks at two vintage Chryslers by the side of the road. The first one is a glossy white, and contains about twenty young black males waiting while a policeman inspects the entirely open chassis where the glass used to be before it shattered. The second car, with black enamel, contains no fewer than thirty black males, mostly teenagers, with a single shard of windshield dangling perilously from where the rear window used to be. No one seems hurt.