“I know it doesn’t. I’m sorry.”

“They’re sure it was Juarez?”

“They are positive. They matched fingerprints found on shell casings at the scene with Mr. Juarez. My understanding is they also have witnesses who heard Juarez make numerous threats and placed him at the scene earlier that night. They attempted to arrest Juarez at his home earlier today, but he had already fled. Listen, I have other calls-”

“Are they close to an arrest?”

“I don’t know. Now I really do-”

“One more thing, Captain, please. On the news, they said he was a gangbanger.”

“That’s my understanding, yes.”

“You know his gang affiliation?”

“I don’t-no, sir. I really do have to go now.”

Holman thanked him, then went back to the bartender for change of a dollar. The woman with the loud mouth gave him a nasty glance, but this time she didn’t say anything. Holman took his change back to the phone and called Gail Manelli.

“Hey, it’s Holman. You got a second?”

“Of course, Max. I was just about to call you.”

Holman figured she wanted to tell him that the police had named a suspect, but he plowed on.

“Remember you said if I needed a few days you’d square it with Gilbert?”

“Do you need some time off?”

“Yes. There’s a lot to deal with, Gail. More than I thought.”

“Have you spoken with the police today?”

“I just got off the phone with Captain Levy. Can you square a few days with Gilbert? That guy has been good to me with the job-”

“I’ll call him right now, Max-I’m sure he’ll understand. Now listen, would you like to see a counselor?”

“I’m doing fine, Gail. I don’t need a counselor.”

“This isn’t a time to lose sight of everything you’ve learned, Max. Use the coping tools you have. Don’t try to be an iron man and think you have to weather this alone.”

Holman wanted to ask her if she would like to share the guilt and shame he felt. He was tired of everyone treating him as if they were scared shitless he would explode, but he reminded himself Gail was doing her job.

“I just need the time, is all. If I change my mind about the counselor I’ll let you know.”

“I just want you to understand I’m here.”

“I know. Listen-I have to go. Thanks for squaring up the job for me. Tell Tony I’ll call him in a few days.”

“I will, Max. You take care of yourself. I know you’re hurting, but the most important thing you can do right now is take care of yourself. Your son would want that.”

“Thanks, Gail. I’ll see you.”

Holman put down the phone. Gail had her ideas about what was important, but Holman had his. The criminal world was a world he knew. And knew how to use.

CRIMINALS DID not have friends. They had associates, suppliers, fences, whores, sugar daddies, enablers, dealers, collaborators, coconspirators, victims, and bosses, any of whom they might rat out and none of whom could be trusted. Most everyone Holman met on the yard during his ten years at Lompoc had not been arrested and convicted because Dick Tracy or Sherlock Holmes made their case; they had been fingered by someone they knew and trusted. Police work only went so far; Holman wanted to find someone who would rat out Warren Juarez.

That afternoon, Gary “L’Chee” Moreno said, “You gotta be the dumbest gringo ever shit between two feet.”

“Tell me you love me, bro.”

“Here’s what I’m tellin’ you, Holman: Why didn’t you run? I been waiting ten years to ask that, dumbfuckinAnglo.”

“Didn’t have to wait ten years, Chee. You coulda come seen me in Lompoc.”

“That’s why they caught you, thinkin’ like that, dumbfuckinHolman! Me, I would’a jetted outta that bank straight to Zacatecas like a chili pepper was up my ass. C’mere. Give a brother some love.”

Chee came around the counter there at his body shop in East L.A. He wrapped Holman in a tight hug, it being ten years since they had seen each other-since the day Chee had waited outside the bank for Holman as the police and FBI arrived; whereupon-by mutual agreement-Chee had driven away.

Holman first met Chee when they were serving stints at the California Youth Authority, both fourteen years old; Holman for a string of shoplifting and burglary arrests, Chee on his second auto theft conviction. Chee, small but fearless, was being pounded by three bloods on the main yard when Holman, large for his size even then with the thick neck and shoulders, whaled in and beat the bloods down. Chee couldn’t do enough for him after that, and neither could Chee’s family. Chee was a fifth-generation White Fence homeboy, nephew to the infamous Chihuahua Brothers from Pacoima, two miniature Guatemalans who macheted their way to the top of the L.A. stolen car market in the seventies. In the day, Holman had fed Porsches and ’vettes to Chee when he was sober enough to steal them, which wasn’t so very often toward the end, and Chee had even driven on a few of the bank jobs; done it, Holman knew, only for the in-your-face outlaw rush of living crazy with his good buddy Holman.

Now, Chee stepped back, and Holman saw that his eyes were serious. Holman really did mean something to him; meant something deep for all those past times.

“Goddamn, it’s good to see you, bro. Goddamn. You crazy or what? It’s a violation for you even to be standing here.”

“I’m federal release, homes. It’s not like a state parole. They don’t say who I can roll with.”

Chee looked doubtful.

“No shit?”

“Up.”

Chee was clearly mystified and impressed at the vagaries of the federal system.

“C’mon back here, we’ll get away from this noise.”

Chee led Holman behind the counter into a small office. These same offices had once been the center of a chop shop Chee managed for his uncles, breaking down stolen cars into their component parts. Now, older, wiser, and with his uncles long dead, Chee ran a mostly legitimate body shop employing his sons and nephews. Holman made a show of looking around the body shop office.

“Looks different.”

“Is different, homes. My daughter works here three days a week. She don’t wanna see titty pictures on the walls. You want a beer?”

“I’m sober.”

“No shit? Well, good, man, that’s real good. Goddamned, we’re gettin’ old.”

Chee laughed as he dropped into his chair. When Chee laughed, his leathery skin accordioned with acne craters and tattoos from his gang days. He was still White Fence, a certified veterano, but out of the street life. Chee’s weathered face grew sad, staring at nothing until he finally looked at Holman.

“You need some money? I’ll front you, homes. You don’t even have to pay me back. I mean it.”

“I want a homeboy named Warren Alberto Juarez.”

Chee swiveled in his chair to pull a thick phone book from the clutter. He flipped a few pages, circled a name, then pushed the book across his desk.

“Here you go. Knock yourself out.”

Holman glanced at the page. Warren A. Juarez. An address in Cypress Park. A phone number. When Holman looked up, Chee was staring like Holman was stupid.

“Homes, that why you came down here, cash in on the reward? You think he’s hidin’ in a closet down here? Ese, please.”

“You know where he went?”

“Why you think I’d know something like that?”

“You’re Little Chee. You always knew things.”

“Those days are gone, bro. I am Mister Moreno. Look around. I ain’t in the life anymore. I pay taxes. I got hemorrhoids.”

“You’re still White Fence.”

“To the death and beyond, and I’ll tell you this-if I knew where the homeboy was I’d nail that fifty myself-he ain’t White Fence. He’s Frogtown, homes, from up by the river, and right now he ain’t nothing to me ’cept a pain in the ass. Half my boys called in sick today, wantin’ that money. My work schedule’s in the shitter.”

Chee showed his palms, like enough already with Warren Juarez, and went on with his rant.