The garage was behind and to the side of the shabby cinderblock house. Instead of a single overhead, it had old wooden doors that swung out to open. The left one was standing wide to catch the cooler night air, and bright lights inside illuminated a long-haired man bent over a cluttered workbench. He wore a dirty T shirt and a bandana tied over his forehead like an Apache warrior, jeans worn to holes. Ramon’s eyes strayed to his colors, the biker’s badge of honor, a thing he would die to protect. The jacket was hung carefully over an old wooden chair, safely out of the way.

Spread out over the oil-stained floor was a chopper, or what Ramon guessed would someday be a chopper. Right then it was parts…there were fucking bike parts everywhere, in the garage, strewn in the weed-choked grass. The place looked like a junkyard, but a yellow plastic Tyco playhouse and a bunch of kids’ toys were mixed in with the other crap. Ramon Guiterrez hesitated on the sidewalk for a long time, wondering if he should give it up and get out of there. A Mongol one percenter was nobody to fuck with…he almost wished he had to deal with the Mara Salvatrucha instead. At least he knew what he was up against there. But he squared his shoulders and tried the gate in the chain-link fence. It swung open and Ramon started through, surprised it wasn’t locked.

Ten steps inside the fence he found out why. The dogs came at him, wild-eyed, growling deep, lips drawn back in teeth-baring snarls. Ramon stood frozen in fear. He hated dogs. Especially big mean motherfuckers like the pair of Rottweilers snapping at his legs.

The man inside the garage looked over his shoulder, then took his time wiping his hands on a dirty rag before coming to the edge of the door. "Basta! Down." The dogs backed off a few feet and the growls subsided to a low we’re gonna get your skinny pachuco ass threat.

Rocky Chavez stared coldly at Ramon for a moment before his bearded chin jerked a question: "I know you, capullo?"

Capullo…dickhead. His dark skin flushing darker at the insult, Ramon said sullenly, "Name’s Ramon Guiterrez, but my friends call me Ramie G. Maybe you heard of me."

Chavez tossed the rag onto the workbench behind him. "I don’t give a fuck what they call you. What are you doing in my yard?"

Ramon took a step closer, skirting the growling dogs. "Hey man, be cool. I come bearing gifts...some interesting 411. Very interesting to your people. I went to Jaime Garza first, and the man said to come see you."

Chavez moved to an old refrigerator and took out a beer. He didn’t offer one to Ramon.

Popping the top off the longneck, he took a deep swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Jaime told you, huh?" He let the bottle slide through his fingers until he was holding it by the end like a weapon. "Jaime has a tat on his left forearm. What is it?"

Ramon cursed silently, had a mental of Chavez swinging that bottle in his face. He didn’t know what the fuck Garza’s tat looked like. When he’d talked to him earlier, he’d been shit-scared, afraid to look too closely at him for fear the man would think he was a snitch. And Garza had been in a long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs pushed above his wrists. Part of the ink on his forearms was visible, but not enough for an accurate description.

"I couldn’t see all of it," Ramon admitted. "I don’t know. But he’s the one said to come see you with what I got."

Rocky finished his beer and tossed the bottle in a trash barrel. He looked at Ramon consideringly. "You want a beer?"

Relieved, Ramon nodded. "Yeah. Sure, man."

"Well, come on in." Rocky waited until he was inside, then closed the doors behind him. As he turned to face Ramon, he reached behind his back and drew a gun from his waistband. Ramon went pale as Rocky said, "Okay, chollo…tell me what you know. And it fuckin’ better be good, or I’ll feed what’s left of you to my dogs."

* * *

Lonnie Brannigan knew something was bothering Bud. She just didn’t know what it was. They were supposed to be on a vacation, taking a little time for themselves, and at first it was great. They did the usual...stuff everyone does when they come to Vegas. A little gambling, a ride out to Hoover Dam, a lot of lovemaking. Took in a couple of shows, found a nice little café where they met some new people, and even ran into an old friend or two…eventually, everyone in LA comes to Vegas.

And then Bud got quiet the way only Bud White can. Not quite moody, but Lonnie could tell something was up. At first she ignored it and doubled her efforts to get him out and going. She suggested a few hours at the pool...she had a yen to see him in his trunks and she wanted to get some sun while she was there, but he shot the idea down. They ended up spending the morning in the Café Biscotti again, and it took all of two minutes for Lonnie to figure out that Bud was only there to watch the door.

She sat back in her chair and gave him the eye. "Okay, that’s it. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m leaving you here and going to the pool alone. How much do you want to bet it won’t take but five minutes for some guy to hit on me?"

His eyes turned away from the door and narrowed on her. "C’mon, Lon. Can it."

"Can what? You better come clean, Wendell. I can feel you slipping away from me here…something’s got your attention, because your mind is definitely not on us."

He rubbed a hand over his chin. She was right, he should have known she’d make him right away. He never could hide stuff from Lonnie, and since he’d seen Blanche Donovan, he’d been mulling over what it might mean to his case. His no-case. Even the LAPD brass had told him to drop it, said it wasn’t worth pursuing. Donovan quit the force, she wasn’t their problem anymore.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw stiffened. But he couldn’t let it go. He wouldn’t.

Across the table, Lonnie saw all the signs and leaned closer to hiss, "Bud, don’t do this to me, dammit!"

A glance at her eyes told him she was getting hot under the collar. Maybe she had good reason, he’d promised her a nice time and he wasn’t delivering. But Lonnie was a cop too…a good cop, and stuff like this made her just as crazy as it made him. Maybe if he ran it by her, the details would line up. Two heads and all that shit...

He sipped his coffee, set the cup down carefully and shrugged. "Okay. This is an old case…over a year now. Drug bust in Los Feliz…we took out the dealer when he came out of his bedroom with a gun in his hand instead of his dick. Recovered a bunch of H and meth, but no cash. I thought it was suspicious, did some investigating. You remember that cop I was following? The woman I thought took the dough?"

Lonnie knitted her brows, and finally said, "Yeah. Blanche something. What about her?"

"I saw her here this morning. Had her shit-scared until this long-haired asshole came to her rescue. She walked off with him."

Lonnie’s eyebrow hooked. "So? Vegas is the playground for Angelenos. Look at us."

He shook his head. "No Lon, that ain’t it. She’s a resident. I checked. Lives out in Henderson, in a brand new house. A joint like it would cost an easy million in LA. You see where I’m going?"

"Yeah, I see. And I’m here to tell you that a house that costs a mil in LA can be had for about two hundred and fifty thou in this area. Their real estate values ain’t screwed up like ours are." Lonnie paused to take a calming breath...housing was a sore spot with her. She and Bud wanted to buy a place of their own, but their salaries wouldn’t stretch to cover it.

Bud shook his head. "Bullshit. She bought that house with part of the money she stole. Where the fuck would she scrape up the down payment otherwise? You know what cops make...chicken shit."

"Bud, you’re reading things into this..." Lonnie began.

"Fuckin’ A I am. It’s called extrapolating, Lon. Remember your Criminal Justice class?"

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. "No need to get sarcastic, Wendell." She glared at him for a moment. "So now what? Are you telling me you’re gonna hijack our vacation and spend your time tracking this Blanche?"

He didn’t answer.

"Dammit, Bud! We only have a few more days left."

His eyes went to the door again. "Yeah, well that’s kinda my point."

* * *

Cort and Blanche arrived at his Mexican home long after night fell. Dark out in the country in Mexico was like dark in the Nevada desert, can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark, so she hadn’t really seen much of his villa. But a gibbous moon shone enough for her to realize it was much grander than he’d made it sound. The way he talked, he owned a simple house on a little piece of beachfront property. She’d learned that was an understatement, if not a complete lie.

He owned acres, not a patch of sand. The house was in a walled compound, they’d had to stop and wait until someone inside buzzed them in. She saw security cameras mounted on the pillars that flanked wrought iron gates and turned to look a question at him. He didn’t notice, the gates swung open and he drove through. A curving driveway led them at least another hundred yards before they reached the house.

His housekeeper opened the door before he stopped the truck. Almost embarrassed, Blanche led Sport to a bush so he could do his thing before she and Cort went inside. While he kissed the woman’s plump brown cheek, she let her eyes rove over stucco walls and warm tiled floors. Heavy dark furniture from the 19^th century, old iron lanterns on the walls, golden light, warm colors. She’d always thought she was doing okay on her own, but all of a sudden, in the face of that simple classic beauty, Blanche felt poor.

"I didn’t know you had all this," she hissed as they started up the stairs. Malena, Cort’s housekeeper, had gone to set out "la poca cena" ... the little supper she’d made. "You made it sound like...a shack on the beach."

Cort hustled Sport inside the bedroom with a, "C’mon, old boy." He set their bags down and said absently, "Did I, darlin’?"

"Yes, you did. All that ‘a little adobe villa with a patio and lemon trees’ stuff. This is not," she glanced around the bedroom, "little."

"It’s adobe, though," Cort grinned. "And I got a patio and lemon trees. C’mon, Angel...what does it matter how big it is? It’s nice, right?"

"It’s very nice." She walked to the bed draped in mosquito netting, rubbed the fine muslin between her finger and thumb. "Very nice," she repeated.

"This dog don’t sleep in bed with you, does he?" Cort eyed the eighty pound K-9 warily. "I don’t look forward to gettin’ him out of the way when I go for you."

"Go for me, huh?" Blanche grinned. "You have an old rug or something? If we put it on the floor, he’ll bed down there. Won’t you, Sport?" She looked at her dog, who was investigating his new quarters, thrusting his nose into corners, sniffing each new thing for potential interest. As if in reply, he circled and thumped down near the French doors.

"There, see?"

"I’ll tell Malena to fetch him a blanket." His face pulled into a wicked leer. "Now come here, woman. I finally got you where I wanted you all along." He drew her into his arms, held her with his chin resting on the crown of her head. "Remember that first day, darlin’? I told you about Mexico...said I wanted to bring you down to paradise. Now you’re here."

He pulled back, lifted her chin to look into her eyes. "You’re here," Cort repeated, and the tone of his voice was reminiscent of the wonder of a child at Christmas. "Mine," he whispered. "Say it, Angel. Please."

"Yours." Blanche lifted her face, pressed her lips to his and murmured against them so that their movement was a caress. "All yours, Cort."

* * *

Blanche Donovan woke to the sound of the sea, the smell of coffee and cinnamon, and tickle of kisses on her bare shoulder. She lay quietly a moment as Cort tried to lick off her chocolate drop mole and watched gauzy white curtains billow in the breeze. There was a little balcony just through the French doors, and she thought how nice it would be to sit out there for breakfast every day and watch the waves lap at the beach.

A subtle knock on the door had Sport up and bristling. Cort looked over her shoulder and sternly ordered, "Down!" and the dog instantly obeyed, though his ears stayed perked and his eyes remained on the door.

"That’s a damn good dog," Cort said, proud as if he’d raised Sport himself. He patted Blanche on the rump. "Time to get up, darlin’. Come on in, Malena."

Blanche pulled the sheet to cover her breasts as the housekeeper came in with a tray and a smile, and went straight to the French doors. She ignored Sport, who politely moved out of her way.