They finally arrived back in a small office, the closed door providing an abrupt and disorienting silence. Lash settled into a chair, gauging the cuts in his hands with a scientist's detachment. "Sorry, lads. Where was we?"
Perspiring heavily from the near confrontation, Bear looked unamused. "The Sinners."
"Oh, yeah, right. You got more dead presidents in that pocket of yours, chief?"
Bear withdrew another Jackson but kept the Franklin buckled down. Lash added the twenty to his take from the fight-fifty-five bucks in crumpled tens, fives, and ones.
Bear said, "You know about the transport-van break. And the Cholos massacre. Something big is going down. What?"
"I dunno. I'm out of that game. But Den and Kaner, those boys don't fuck around. From the aftermath, looks like they got their mitts into something tasty."
"Like what?"
"Two years out, pal. Can't help you there."
"You know anything about a Rich Mandrell? Goes by Richie Rich?"
"Must be a new addition."
"How about a Danny the Wand?"
"Course. Best sprayer you'll ever meet. An artist."
"You have a real name?"
"Nope. Just Danny the Wand."
"This Danny, he rides his rep pretty hard."
Lash's hearty laugh was part roar, part grumble. "You'd better not tell Danny that, man."
"Why not?"
"You'll see."
"Where can we find him?" Tim asked.
"Beats the hell outta me. Used to have a shop over on…" Lash snapped his fingers a few times. "I think it was by the Harley dealer in Glendale. But Danny closed up shop. Have spray gun, will travel. I think freelance spraying pays better dough anyway. We lost track."
Bear removed his money clip, tapped it against his palm. Lash's eyes tracked its movement; he reflexively fingered the bruises on his arm.
"We want to find the nomads," Bear said.
"Good luck, man. The Sinners got safe houses all over the state, no papers on 'em, nothing. They roll 'em over every six months."
"Do you have any addresses? Relatives, girlfriends, ex-wives? That's what we need here, Lash, an address."
Lash chewed his lips for a while, his beard bunching like a fist. "Intel officer's who you want. He's the keeper of the plans. The one with the files, the hard facts."
"Chief?"
Lash looked surprised that Bear had produced a name. "Yeah, that's right."
"Where's he lay his head?"
"No one knows. Not Uncle Pete. Not even the other nomads. And that's God's truth. The intel officer runs separate from the pack, never goes to the clubhouse. Keeps his own safe house, even. That's where all the dirt is."
Bear slid his fat money clip back into his pocket and angled toward the door. Tim and Guerrera shadowed his body language.
Lash half rose out of the chair. "He's got a deed, Chief, but you won't get shit from her. Not a damn thing. Don't even bother. The Cholos one time got ahold of her, kept her for three days. She didn't squeal. Not a sentence. Den and Kaner caught up to the spics six months later, took care of them. Chief showed up for that party. Yes, sir, Chief loves that cunt something fierce."
"You got a name?"
Lash took a long time thinking about that one, pinching the mouths of his hand wounds and watching the blood flow. "Hell," he said at last, "not like it's a big secret. Even the Cholos know about her. It's just a name."
"That's right," Bear said. "Just a name. Like, say, Benjie Franklin."
"Terry Goodwin." Lash's eyes darted around the room. "There. I said it." He scratched a scab at the base of his biceps, drawing a red smear. "Now, where's that hundo?"
Chapter 25
By 3:00 P.M. Tim's lower back ached every time he shifted, but he didn't complain, since Bear and Guerrera had been sitting the stakeout all the way through. At least Tim had been able to sneak away to drop fresh flowers off in Dray's room-irises to greet her awakening if he couldn't-and then spend the morning at the command post. Even so, he'd memorized every detail of the exterior of Terry Goodwin's house, a ranch style on a corner lot in Valencia.
Tannino had expedited their middle-of-the-night warrant request, personally waking up a federal judge. Tim, Bear, and Guerrera had stalked the property cautiously the night before, not wanting to blow the lead if Chief wasn't present. Tim had beheld Terry's sleeping form-solo in the California king-through the bottom seam of the bedroom blinds, a pair of night-vision goggles helping him fill in the picture.
The RV trailer they'd hooked from the Asset Seizure warehouse at least permitted them better viewing comfort. Sunflower seeds overflowed two cups in the front holders. Tim leaned over, finger in one ear so he could hear Freed giving him a cell-phone breakdown on chop and spray shops that had closed in the past few years around the Glendale Harley store. He and Thomas hadn't stumbled across any paperwork with a "Danny," "Daniel," or "Dan" on it.
Guerrera was lying on the shag carpet in the back, staring up at the ceiling. "She still at the kitchen table?"
From his post at the tinted window, Bear said, "Yup."
"What's she doing now?"
"Reading the paper."
"Which section?"
"Front page."
Ten minutes later. "And now?"
"Sports."
"Finally. Who won the Citrus Bowl?"
Bear readjusted his binoculars. "Dunno…she's flipping back and forth… Mia Hamm pulled a hamstring…Turning the page…Miami."
"Yes." Guerrera pumped his fist.
Tim finished with Freed and snapped the phone shut. The RV's smell-salsa and stale cigarettes-and his exhaustion, now verging on sleep deprivation, added to the burden of his frustration. "This is stupid."
"I said last night I didn't want to sit the house." Bear, hater of stake-outs, failed to keep the resentment from his voice. "We don't have time to wait and see if Chief's gonna swing by to play a little grab-ass."
"I agree," Guerrera weighed in. "Not the best use of our time, here, socio."
"So what is? This is our strongest lead."
"If Lash's information is good," Bear said.
"He's a junkie. He needs money, and he knows if he does us right, we'll be back with more. Beats ping-ponging around barbed wire for a few bucks."
Guerrera said, "It'll catch up with him. You don't tell tales out of school about the Sinners. He'll be killed. Sooner or later."
They sat in silence, the only sound the autozoom on Bear's binocs. Though he hadn't remarked on it, Tim had taken a shine to Lash, and he'd gleaned that Bear and Guerrera had, too.
Finally Bear said, "Let's hope later."
"Why don't we knock-and-notice her, search the house?" Guerrera said.
"Because if nothing turns up, then we lose the angle," Tim said.
"You think she has Chief's number to alert him?"
"If she does, I'm not betting our one solid lead on the notion that she's dumb enough to write it down." Tim took the binoculars from Bear and trained them on Terry, who'd moved on to Entertainment. A healed knife scar glittered on her right cheek, maybe a parting gift from her three-day stint with the Cholos. "That phone number's in her skull. It's just a matter of getting it out."
"How?" Bear asked.
But Tim was already dialing Pete Krindon.
Krindon unloaded his bag of gear and glanced around the tight camper interior. "Nice digs. I particularly like the neon sign on top flashing 'Stakeout.'"
"You take care of the junction box?" Tim asked.
"Yes. But we're gonna need backup. If this chick is as street-savvy as you say, she'll use a cell phone." Krindon withdrew a parabola mike from his bag, the receiver surrounded with a cone collar. He slid open the window, hiding the mike behind a rust-orange curtain, then tossed a cell phone to Guerrera. "Lay on the Mexican accent something fierce."