“Hard to say what you might do.” Luis looked at me out of half-closed eyes.
I couldn’t tell whether his pose was meant to be seductive, threatening, or wary. I decided it didn’t matter.
“You have any connects with PEN1?” I asked.
This time both eyebrows shot up, and Luis pulled his head down into his jacket and leaned forward. “Why you wanna talk to them”-he sighed with exasperation and corrected himself-“I mean those…pendejos for?”
“We’re trying to find someone who might’ve hired them to do a hit,” I replied. “This person might still be using them.”
Luis snorted. “Usin’ ’em as what? A piñata?”
“As protection,” I said.
“Huh,” Luis said derisively. “Mus’ be un gilazo, usin’ a skinhead for somethin’ important like that.” He shook his head in disgust.
I looked at him impatiently. “Anyway…”
“I don’ know nobody in PEN1, but I got a connect with the Low Riders. Guess I could hook you up.” Luis turned back to me. “You sure you wanna meet with that pinche fool?”
A Nazi Low Rider could still work. He might be able to give us the leads to get to someone higher up in PEN1. And it wouldn’t take long. They all swim in the same cesspool.
“I don’t want to marry the dude, Luis,” I said. “I just need some information.”
“Whatever…,” he replied.
The waitress brought our food, and we all dug in. Between wolfing bites of ribs, Luis gave us the name and description of the “pinche fool.”
We’d finished dinner and walked out to Bailey’s car when Luis asked, “How’s your ride?” His grin was wide.
My car had been severely vandalized during the case that’d caused our paths to cross. Not only had Luis put my car back together, but he’d spiffed it up with a midnight-blue-sparkle paint job, new rims, and, among other amenities, a slamming sound system.
“It’s still way out of my league,” I said, smiling. “But I’m loving it.”
“You lemme know if you have any pra’lems, right?” he said earnestly.
“I absolutely will,” I said. “And thanks for the hookup, Luis.”
He muttered something that included pinche cabrón as he rounded his freshly polished green Chevy. He paused to wipe the chrome on the side-view mirror with his sleeve, then got in, fired up the engine, honked, waved, and slowly pulled away.
I waved back and couldn’t help smiling.
“He is one of a kind,” Bailey said, a little smile on her face too.
“Which is a good thing,” I replied. “One of him is plenty.”
55
“So we pay a visit to Butch Adler, aka Glass Man,” I said, trying to picture the guy Luis had described. “I’m sure that means he replaces windows,” I added dryly. Glass was common slang for methamphetamine.
“Undoubtedly did some home-renovation projects for Luis,” Bailey agreed.
“You think he still works at the Pep Boys in Simi Valley?”
“With the economy the way it is, and jobs the way they are, I’d bet he’s still in pocket,” she said. “Want to hit him tomorrow?”
“Definitely.” It’d be a good starting point. We needed to get to the heart of PEN1, and that probably meant its head, to see if they had any connection to Lilah. But you don’t hit the target first-you hit the outer periphery and gather information as you work your way in and, hopefully, up. That way, by the time you’re talking to someone in power, you sound like you know what you’re talking about; and with a little luck, you’ve found something to threaten them with. So I didn’t mind the fact that Luis’s connection was at a lower rung of a different skinhead group.
It was eight o’clock by the time Bailey dropped me off at the hotel, which gave me plenty of time to get to the gym and work off those hush pups. I did some serious ab work, pushed myself for half an hour on the treadmill, and wrapped it all up with a combination of machines and free weights to work my upper body. By the time I dragged myself up to my room, I was drenched with sweat and virtuously tired.
One hot shower and a glass of Pinot Noir later, I was tucked in bed with a new, and hopefully better, murder mystery than the one I’d been slogging through. Five minutes later, I was asleep.
I hit the snooze button four times the next morning-one more than usual-which meant I had no time for breakfast. More important, no time for coffee, and on a day like this-cold, glittering, and with air so fresh it cut through me like a razor-I badly needed my hot caffeine fix. At least the wardrobe choices would be easy. I could go casual today, since I doubted the Glass Man, aka Butch Adler, or the Pep Boys where he worked enforced a dress code. Jeans, boots, and a forest-green pullover sweater would do the trick. And I decided to take along the manila envelope containing the photograph of the stabber’s wrist. Bailey and I could look it over again if we had any downtime waiting for our soon-to-be new buddy Butch. I stuffed my.38 Smith & Wesson into the pocket of my peacoat, threw on a black muffler, and headed out.
“There’s a Coffee Bean on the corner,” I said as I got into Bailey’s car.
She gave me a look but knew better than to argue. She pulled over. The line was long and slow. Ten annoying minutes later, I trotted back to the car.
“Here,” I said, handing Bailey a cup. “And I brought us provisions for the long trek ahead.” I held up a bag with bagels and cream cheese.
“It’s Simi Valley, not Idaho,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Simi was a very white enclave.
“Well, maybe a little bit,” Bailey said as she enjoyed a long sip from her cup.
“What do we have on Glass Man?” I asked, spreading cream cheese on a piece of bagel with the tiny plastic knife.
“Probation for drunk driving. He got one year suspended-”
“That’s not much,” I said, worried.
Most of these guys could do a year standing on their heads.
“We work with what we’ve got,” Bailey replied philosophically.
“I hate to waste the time if he’s just going to tell us to pound sand,” I said sourly.
“Got a better idea?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Then suck it up and think positive,” Bailey said.
We made it to Simi Valley in relatively good time. It was a study in contrasts, as we had just left the funky, multiethnic mix that’s downtown L.A. Wide, flat streets with neatly trimmed trees lined the sidewalks, and everything was suburban clean. Even the bus-stop bench, adorned with a real estate ad that bore the grin of a cheesy-looking blonde who wanted to sell YOUR home, looked safe enough to sleep on. But unlike downtown, I’d bet no one ever did.
Bailey navigated us to the Pep Boys in the middle of a vanilla strip mall. Two muscular-looking young guys in crew cuts and long-sleeved waffle shirts under short-sleeved uniforms conferred beneath the hood of a red Ford pickup truck that was in a front parking space. As we passed them on our way into the store, I steeled myself for the usual macho review.
Except there wasn’t any. The guys just kept talking about the alternator, whatever that is. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or depressed.
Bailey asked the cashier, a remarkably wholesome-looking girl with a single blond braid that hung down her back, where we could find the manager.
She directed us to a man in a dress shirt and black polyester pants wearing a name tag that said TOMMY.
Tommy was on the phone, so while we waited, I looked around. All manner of gadgets designed to fix or shine up a motor vehicle were stacked neatly on shelves throughout a cavernous store. I was never into cars, but the array of products had me looking around for something to buy. I can shop anywhere. A young dark-haired man with a wispy mustache brought a car cover to the cashier. He took his time counting out his money, giving himself a chance to flirt with her. I heard him ask her whether she liked working around all that car stuff. She gave him a sweet smile, flicked back her braid winningly, and said, “Sure,” in a perky voice. Liar.