“What’s in Downey?” Remy asked.

“Some fundraiser tomorrow morning,” Abe said. “I’m going with him, so no need to be here at five a.m.”

Remy and I looked at each other, but didn’t say anything.

“So that’s it?” I asked.

“The assemblyman’s got a pancake breakfast tomorrow morning outside his headquarters. There’s a five-story hotel a block away. It’s the only building over one story in the town. We assume that’s Brauer’s base of operations.”

I stubbed out my cigarette and looked to Remy. This was a good thing. And at least we’d exhausted all means, trying to talk to Wolf.

“So they got some confirmation on this?” Remy asked. “The Feds?”

“That’s what they told me,” Abe said. “They’ve contacted the governor, who called his counterpart in Alabama. Everything’s whisper quiet so we can catch this son of a bitch setting up at that hotel.”

The metal door to the back of the game place scraped open, and Wolf pointed at me and Remy with his bony fingers, beckoning us inside.

“All right,” I said to Abe. “Stay safe.”

Remy was already moving ahead of me. Before I could tell Wolf that we didn’t need his help.

I hung up and squinted at Wolf, who was standing with two nerdy-looking dudes. One was white and had legit mom jeans on. Like high-waisted, early ’90s numbers, into which he’d tucked a collared shirt. The other guy was Black and wore thick glasses and a white button-down over shorts. For the first time, I realized that Wolf was probably the hippest guy in this crowd.

“This is Ladrell and Malcolm,” Wolf said.

The two men stared nervously at Remy—their eyes moving from her chest to the asphalt and then back.

“Wolf,” I said. “Sorry, I don’t think it’s—”

“Just hear them out, Marsh,” Wolf said, reading my look on the pair.

Malcolm, the Black guy, spoke first. “So, a lot of the guys downstairs make models, you know? LOTR characters—that sort of thing.”

I looked to Wolf, who quickly translated that LOTR stood for Lord of the Rings.

“Or Darth Sidious figures if you’re into Star Wars,” Ladrell said. As if that clarified something about their culture.

“Point being,” Malcolm said, pointing at the basement below, “they aren’t gonna be able to help much. But with us, it’s different.”

I suddenly noticed Malcolm was holding three of my business cards and Ladrell was holding two. These guys had scored the full set.

“We don’t print those things,” Ladrell said. “We make guns, me and Malcolm.”

He swallowed. Waiting then, as if I might arrest him.

“Okay,” I said. Trying to wear a friendly face even though the guy had just admitted to producing ghost guns.

Remy cocked her head at Ladrell. “Have you heard something?”

“I didn’t take it seriously,” Ladrell said. “But there was like . . . I don’t know how to describe it . . . an RFP that was put out.”

“A request for proposal?” I asked.