A couple of the men nodded in agreement, eager to get on the range. Bear looked to Tim, and Tim shrugged. Bear pretended to be peeved, blowing a jet of air where his bangs would be if he didn't have cropped Polish hair.
Wes walked over and stroked Candy Racer's well-toned flank, then administered it a jockey's smack. To whoops and cheers, she sprinted off into the preserve, the gauze curtain whistling around her. "Remember, boys, she gets a two-minute lead."
"Last I checked," Bear said, as it became increasingly clear who was going to have to play good cop this round, "deer don't wear goggles either."
"You're a perceptive guy and a shrewd grammarian," Wes said, minding his stopwatch. "But city business services came down on me. We used to be able to shoot the girls anywhere on their bods, too, but then we had to add regs. We still do our best to simulate natural conditions."
"Of what?" Bear said. "Berserking Vikings in the Amazon Basin?"
"We're an environmentally sound business."
"Jungle orchids being indigenous to the Ballona Wetlands."
"Hey, they like green, they got green." Wes clicked his stopwatch ahead of schedule and said, with a tough-guy delivery, "Game on." He waved on the paintballers, who shuffled eagerly off into the preserve, barking code words. "It's bad enough the fuckin' Christians are cracking down. I don't need Johnny Law harassing me in front of my clients. You here on official business, or just to express your personal views on the morality of leisure?"
Before Bear decided to wax poetic with synonyms for "clients," Tim said, "We're working a murder investigation that points here." He flashed a picture of Tess without asking a follow-up question, just to see what he could read in Wes's face.
Wes's eyes snagged on the photograph an instant, and then he shuffled back behind the counter and plugged a few paintball guns into an automatic washer, seating the water nozzles into the gun barrels. A fat tabby leapt up from a hidden crouch, purring and parading across his shoulders. "What pointed you here?"
"Paint. My guy traced it to your place. You make your own paint-balls?"
"Have 'em made, sure. I need to, place like this, bare flesh and all. Besides, hard-shell mishaps can get expensive. A paintball ricochets around enough, it hits the guy with the most expensive lawyer."
The cat's face spread in a hiss that made Bear take a step back. Wes smiled and glanced down at his clipboard. He clicked on a loudspeaker, and his high-pitched voice echoed through the building: "Santa Monica Blood Warriors on deck. Start suiting up at the half hour. Tunnel Rat, you're in the hole." He hefted himself onto a barstool, the cat taking flight to the back counter.
Mounted above a computer monitor was a trophy shot of Wes in the preserve. One boot rested on the sweat-slick rump of a naked, prostrate black woman Tim recognized from semipro beach volleyball tournaments sometimes aired on the local sports channels. The blatant misogyny and-accidental? — racist overtones must have brought an inadvertent scowl to Tim's face, because Wes looked at him, a touch self-conscious in the face of the Troubleshooter's judgment, and said, "Hey, man, these chicks take home three hundo a run, a cool half grand if they don't get hit. Beats waitressing for tips."
"Socially responsible of you to keep them off the mean streets," Bear said.
"I provide people with a little diversion, and a very good income to some just-about-unemployable women. And-unlike your jobs-it's fun. You see, in here I'm king. Four-time course champion. I can hit an ace of spades with a nine mil at twenty yards."
"That's great if you get attacked by a bridge club."
Tim wheeled on Bear. "Take out the tampon, Jowalski. If some dumb broad wants to get shot in the tits for three hundred bucks a pop, who gives a shit?"
Bear raised his hands-a classic What do I need it for? — and walked out.
After the front door slammed, drawing giggles from two of the quarry-turned-strippers, Tim pivoted back to the counter. "Sorry 'bout that. He's a former bull cop. Old dog, old tricks. He hasn't figured out that when you need answers from people, you don't bust their balls first. We're dependent on guys like you to make headway, you know? We're not writing speeding tickets here. Jesus Christ."
"Hey, whatever. Don't worry about it. I'm used to dealing with assholes."
"I bet you see all kinds through here."
Wes said, "Believe me."
"'Nam vets?"
"Oh, yeah. Now and then. Old guys, but man, are they mean. Former law enforcement, too. Rich college kids-mostly USC. Lotta Persians. We get some guys training for tourneys, like the squad that just deployed to the preserve."
Tim leaned over the counter conspiratorially, setting his weight on his elbow. "Anyone…shadier?" The pause was a beat too long, giving Wes too much time from brain to mouth, so Tim offered his hand. "Tim Rackley."
"I know who you are." Wes thumbed out his badge from his shirt so Tim could read his name. "And I'd be happy to help a stand-up dude like yourself."
"Look, Wes, you're the owner. A guy like you, a big shot here, well liked-you got your finger on the pulse. Who comes through here?"
Wes cast a glance around, then lowered his voice to match Tim's. "We get some Soldier of Fortune types, sure. A lotta whispered conversations at the bar. This place is the real deal. A place to get stuff, ya know? But I got a good thing here-count those guys. Each one is paying fifteen hundo. Overhead, dick. I walk out with forty, fifty K a week. Your partner would call me a less-than-model citizen-but I'm paying my taxes and putting it away, not jeopardizing my retirement just to know what deals get made here."
"No fuckin' way. Not with hard-core operators moving through. That'd be like making me responsible for what every guy in my platoon did on liberty."
"Exactly. I can't see every inch of this operation. I make sure I don't. But you know, a guy's been around, like me, a guy hears things. Whispers."
"Right. Like maybe one of these boys"-a wave at the crowded lounge-"takes his hunting to the next level?"
Wes glanced around, having a hard time keeping the glint of pride from showing in his eyes. "I've heard hits come through here. I think it's all bullshit. What have you been told?"
Tim held a poker face. "We've got solid evidence implicating Game."
Wes took this in with a regretful nod. "Maybe a money drop got set up here-the jury's still out. That guy Sands all over the news-got his head blown off in Bel Air?" He hesitated a moment. "He was in here. June sixth. Rented two lockers. Left a briefcase in one overnight. Maybe he was the cash courier, maybe not. Maybe someone came in here after, picked up the cash and the contract."
"Who?"
"I'm a computer guy at heart, so I bounced through the right chat rooms for a little follow-up."
"Which sites?"
"The usual BS. Mercenary forums. Silencer chat rooms. Militia sites, you know." Wes jotted down several URLs, and Tim pocketed the slip of paper, knowing that Guerrera would likely surf around and find little more than wannabes jawing off behind the protection of virile screen names. "The topic's in the wind, all right," Wes continued. "People giving theories anonymously."
"What name's being bandied about?"
Wes actually looked both directions before leaning across the counter and putting his mouth inches from Tim's ear. He smelled of coconut lotion. "The Piper." He settled back on the barstool, the cat jumping into his lap. "No one knows who the guy is. I coulda seen him here like every week and not known it. The guy's stone cold, I heard. Stays remote, can only be contacted through the Internet. The chat rooms I gave you? Like those, but ones that guys like us can't even find."
"Is that all you know?"
"Like I said, I don't know anything. That's what's in the wind."
Tim showed Wes a photo of Walker. "Seen this guy?" He watched Wes closely, but he remained impassive. "Uh-uh."