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sentence, Sam pointedly said, “You’ve got four bucks in your pocket.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” Dean pulled in behind several other cars in the one and only lane labeled cash only, while other cars zipped through one of the six E-Z Pass lanes. Sam was starting to think it was a conspiracy.
    Once they got through and went over another, smaller bridge that welcomed them to the Bronx, Sam said, “We wanna get off at 246th.”
    “Okay.”
    The road continued to curve menacingly past several exits, most for streets numbered in the 200s, before they reached the right exit.
    Within seconds they were completely lost. They drove up and down several hills, and went on several roads that did not go straight, and were frustrated by jumps in the numerical sequence of streets.
    The area was also surprisingly suburban looking, with some really big houses that had yards—neither were images that Sam associated with being in New York City, especially after the view of crammed-together skyscrapers he got from the GWB.
    “I thought this city was on a grid,” Dean said through clenched teeth.
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    “That’s Manhattan, Dean,” Sam said patiently.
    “Great.”
    The road angled down and to the right, nearing a T intersection. Sam caught sight of a green street sign that identified the upcoming street as East 248th Street. “There!” he said pointing, “that’s 248th.
    Turn right.”
    “I swear to God, Sammy, if it’s not on this block, I’m turning around and going back to Indiana.” Sam refrained from pointing out that regardless of whether they were going to Afi ri’s house or back over the bridge, they were still lost. Besides, he got a look at one of the house numbers they passed.
    “We’re on the right block. There, that’s his place.” There weren’t any parking spots on the street, but there was a driveway next to Afi ri’s place, so Dean parked the Impala there.
    Once the car came to a stop, Sam hopped out, grateful for the chance to stretch his long legs for the first time since they’d gassed up in Scotrun, Pennsylvania. His knees popped as they straightened.
    “Nice,” Dean said, and Sam had to agree. The house was a
    three- story Colonial, with a stone chimney on the side, a wooden front porch, complete with porch swing, and a dark wood front door with a small stained-glass window.
    All Ellen had provided Dean was a name and address, as well as the name of the band the guy Never
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    was in, so they had no way of knowing if he’d be home. A ring of the doorbell followed by a full minute of waiting indicated that he wasn’t.
    “Fine, let’s break in,” Dean said, reaching into his jacket pocket for his lock picks.
    Sam put a hand on his arm before he could remove the paper clip in question. “Let’s not. We’re supposed to be helping this guy, remember?”
    “We’ll tell him Ash sent us.”
    “And if he doesn’t believe us and calls the cops?
    Dean, we can’t afford to commit felonies unless we absolutely have to, and we’re not there yet.
    Hell, we just got here. Look, he probably has a day job. Let’s check out the Poe thing and come back in the eve ning when he’s more likely to be home.”
    Dean stared at Sam for a second. The way Dean’s eyes were going back and forth, Sam could tell that his older brother was trying to figure out a way to be right and for Sam to be wrong and was failing miserably.
    Finally, Dean turned around and went back to the car. “Fine, but we ain’t goin’ nowhere until you figure out how to get us out of this nuthouse.” He opened the driver’s side door. “Which crime scene you wanna hit fi rst, the house with the bricked-up guy or the street where the monkey spanked back?”
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    Sam smiled. “Neither. The orangutan that killed those two kids was from the Bronx Zoo. We should start there. Say we’re with, I dunno, Wildlife Conservation magazine or something.”
    “No, not that— National Geographic .”
    “Uh, okay.”