I sat down on the bank of what was now a muddy hole, waiting and watching the level drop. The heat and the quiet combined to lull me, and I wasn't sure how long I'd been there when someone said, “Hey.”

I jerked up, groggily.

A man stood in the gateway, holding a tire iron.

Late twenties or early thirties, heavy growth of dark stubble, thick black Fu Manchu that drooped to his chin.

He had on greasy jeans and Wellington boots with chains, a black T-shirt under a heavy black leather vest. Black, thinning hair, gold hoop earring, steel chains around his neck. Big tattooed arms. Big, hard belly, bowlegs. Maybe six one, two hundred.

Red-rimmed eyes.

At Sunny's Sun Valley, next door to Rodriguez's masonry yard, he'd been wearing a black cap that said CAT.

The muscular guy at the bar who hadn't said much.

He whistled once and came closer. Let one hand drop from the iron. Lowered the metal, swung it parallel to his leg in a slow, small arc and came a few steps closer. Looked at my face. His wore a slow, lazy smile of recognition.

“Retaining wall, huh?”

“What do you want?”

“Donald's kids, man.” Deep slurry voice. He sounded as if he'd come straight from the bar.

“They're not here.”

“Where, man?”

“I don't know.”

The iron arc widened.

I said, “Why would I know?”

“You were lookin' for the little brown brother, man. Maybe you found him.”

“I didn't.”

“Maybe you did, man.” Stepping forward. Just a few feet away, now. Lots of missing teeth. Mustache clogged with dandruff. An angry pus pimple had erupted under his left eye. The tattoos were badly done, a green-blue riot of female torsos, bloody blades, and Gothic lettering.

I said, “I already got a letter from Wallace's lawyer—”

“Fuck that.” He came within swinging range, smelling like the bottom of a clothes hamper that needed emptying.

I backed up. Not much room to maneuver. Behind me was shrubbery—hedges and the maple tree whose branch had been used to skewer the koi.

“You're not helping Donald Dell,” I said. “This won't look good for him.”

“Who gives a fuck, man? You're off the case.”

He swung the iron listlessly, pointing downward and hitting the dirt. Looking at the pond just for a second, then back at me. I searched the area for possible weapons.

Slim pickings: oversized polyethylene bags left behind by the pond crew. Lengths of rubber hosing. A couple of sheets of scummy filter screen. Maybe the koi net. Six feet of stout oak handle below a steel-mesh cup—but it was out of reach.

“Since when?” I said.

“What?”

“Since when am I off the case?”

“Since we said so, man.”

“The Iron Priests?”

“Where're the kids, man?”

“I told you. I don't know.”

He shook his head and advanced. “Don't get hurt over it, man. It's just a job, what the fuck.”

“You like fish?” I said.

“Huh?”