Guilt By Degrees

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.

“I found a Lonnie Wilson in Costa Mesa who fits the description,” she said.

“Costa Mesa has its share of skinheads,” I remarked. “Sounds good so far. Got anything on him?”

Bailey grinned. “If he’s our boy, we’ve hit the jackpot. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. Probation violation.”

“Means no bail.” I smiled.

“And he’s looking at a ten-year fall.”

“So how do we find him?” I asked.

“Finally an easy one. They already picked him up-Men’s Central Jail, Bauchet Street.”

We bumped fists. Then it dawned on me: that meant I was going back to that dump. Again.