It bothered Rick that Kokomo wasn't real. He understood the importance of fictional places, of fantastical Xanadus, gritty Gothams and lovely Rivendales. Such places fed the imagination of the soul. Not to mention, sold lots of books.
But Kokomo? When he heard the song he could smell fresh ocean air; could feel the sand beneath his feet; could hear waves crashing on the shore. He could see Beckett waiting for him on the beach, under an umbrella. With a drink. And little else.
He idly wondered how much money it would cost to buy an island off the Florida Keys.