I’d just decided I had to have that attractive set of spark plugs on the shelf to my right when the manager finished his call and looked at us.
“What can I do for you ladies?” he asked.
I hate being called a lady. It makes me think of white gloves and fussy teacups. And women who simper. It’s a patronizing word that shrinks you, makes you inconsequential and easily dismissed. Or it could just be me.
Bailey stepped in closer and held her badge down at her waist where only he could see it. We didn’t want Glass Man to get a glimpse and take a powder. Tommy’s eyes got big, which I found satisfying. Still want to help the ladies, pal?
“What can I do for you…uh…”
“Detective Keller,” Bailey said. “And this is Deputy District Attorney Knight.”
He nodded politely. “Pleased to meet you.”
Respectful. Better. I supposed this was one of the upsides of Simi Valley. Quite a contrast to the ’tude we usually got downtown.
“We’re looking for Butch Adler,” I said.
“He’s here.” Tommy looked around the store. “Might be helping someone outside. Is he in trouble?”
“No,” Bailey said. “Not at all.”
Not yet anyway.
Tommy looked relieved. “Come with me.”
We followed Tommy to a service bay, where a bald man wearing a Pep Boys uniform shirt and heavy black motorcycle boots was rolling a tire. “Butch,” Tommy called out. “Can you come over here a sec? Got someone who wants to see you.”
Butch narrowed his eyes at Bailey and me. Unlike Tommy, our friend Butch knew how to spot a cop at twenty paces. “Let me just get this out,” he said, gesturing to the tire. He rolled it to an older man standing next to a green Honda Civic, said something to him, and walked over to us, rubbing his hands on a blue kerchief.
Tommy introduced us, but Glass Man didn’t offer to shake. Just kept rubbing the kerchief between his hands and sizing us up.
“Thanks, Tommy,” Bailey said. “We’ll take it from here.”
Tommy gratefully excused himself and went back inside.
“I didn’t test dirty and I haven’t been busted,” Butch said. “So you got nothing on me.”
“You sure about that?” Bailey said, bluffing.
Butch said nothing, showing his street smarts. When in doubt, clam up.
“I’d prefer not to bust you, tell you the truth,” Bailey continued. “Just want to have a little chat.”
Butch’s eyes got narrower. Now that I was up close and personal, I could see that he had a tattoo on his neck of a death’s-head wearing a Nazi helmet. Très chic. He folded his arms.
“I don’t talk to cops,” he said. “Guess you better bust me.”
Tough guy. I decided to try another tack.
“Aren’t you a little curious to know what we want to talk about?” I asked. “Maybe we want to ask about your golf handicap, or your pick for American Idol this season.”
Butch just looked at me, then turned to Bailey. “You got something, bust me. You don’t, let me get on with my day. I got work to do.”
Out of patience and pissed off at having lost all this time for nothing, I snapped, “We just want to know what you heard about PEN1 hitting that cop Zack Bayer in Glendale.”
Butch’s eyebrows shot up, making his whole scalp move back on his head. “You wanna talk about PEN1? Those pieces of cow shit.” He snorted. “Whyn’t ya say so?”
56
Butch was more than willing to talk but not out in the open. He led us into the manager’s office at the end of the store.
“Those PEN1 punks all try to act like they’re hard cases, but they’re just a bunch of little punk-ass bitches,” Butch said in a voice that sounded like a rusty muffler being dragged over a bumpy driveway. Too many cigarettes smoked during meth-fueled all-nighters will do that for you.
“So you don’t believe they did Zack?” I asked.
Butch made a face as though he wanted to spit. “They don’t got the stones.”
“You ever hear of anyone working for the wife, Lilah?” I asked.
“That the hot chick they got for it?”
“The one they tried to get,” I corrected. “She walked.”
“Yeah,” Butch said, nodding to himself. “You askin’ if someone from PEN1 did it for her?”
I nodded.
“No fucking way,” Butch said emphatically. “Like I said, they don’t got-”
“-the stones, I know,” I said. “You ever hear about anyone doing bodyguard work for her? I mean, now-not back then.”
Butch frowned, then folded his meaty arms across his chest. “Why’d she want to hire one o’ them?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious.
“Same reason anyone hires a bodyguard,” I said.
“She’d be stupid.”
My expression told him the wisdom of hiring those fools was of no interest to me.
He added, “No. I never heard that.”
It was looking like we’d hit the bottom of this particular well. I wanted to walk away with something more than Butch’s antipathy for all things PEN1.
“I have to talk to them,” I said. “We need names.”
“You’re not going to put out any paper, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No reports. This conversation never happened.”
Butch reeled off a list for us.
“Who’s the highest up of this bunch?” I asked.
“Dominic-no one’s farther up the chain than him,” Butch replied, a note of respect creeping into his voice.
“Who’s just below him?” I asked.
Butch thought a minute. “Lonnie,” he finally said.
“He in the PEN1 death squad?” I asked.
“Last I knew.”
“This Lonnie have a last name?”
Butch shook his head slowly. “I never knew it. But he used to hang down in San Berdoo.”
“San Bernardino’s a big county, Butch. I’m guessing there’s more than one Lonnie out there,” I said. “How about a description? Any tatts?”
“Yeah,” Butch replied. He paused and squinted. “Had a snake on one arm. Something else on his left…a dagger? Yeah, I think that’s it. A dagger on his left.”
We tried a little longer, but we’d exhausted his repertoire of PEN1 lore.
We headed out of the office. “Hey, Butch,” I said, “how long were you in PEN1?”
Butch stopped and acknowledged my deduction with the faintest of smiles. “’Bout five years.”
“Right up until they busted you for selling to Hispanics.” I made it the statement of fact I was sure it had to be.
Butch nodded, his expression showing he was impressed. “Nice catch, Counselor,” he said. “Pretty smart, lady.”
This time lady didn’t bother me.
We headed back to Bailey’s car.
“You got enough on Lonnie to locate him somewhere in the Inland Empire?” I asked.
“I’m going to call it in and see,” she replied. “In the meantime, you ready for lunch?”
“May as well,” I said. “Just make it someplace where I can get a salad. Please.”
Bailey gave me a superior smirk, but she found us a Marie Callender’s.
Once we got seated, Bailey called in the description of Lonnie, and I took out the photograph of the stabber’s wrist. The watch looked thin and light, the way the most expensive ones often do, though the chronographs gave it a sporty appearance. The glint of metal barely protruding between the fingers of his left hand told me which hand he favored-or at least that he was ambidextrous. That might help narrow it down-that is, if we ever found any suspects. Bailey interrupted my already dead-ended musings with a sharp snap of her cell phone.