Marge braked suddenly as she entered the next curve. Directly below lay the verdant floor of Sagebrush Canyon. She shifted the automatic into low gear as they descended into the valley. Thick red-adobe rocks and boulders framed long stretches of pink-white clover, lavender alfalfa, and the silvery-gray leaves of purple sagebrush. The fields had been recently irrigated, the water droplets still clinging to the flora, sparkling like shattered glass in the sunlight. The air seemed a bit cooler, but the winds were still warm and strong. The sky was iridescent blue.

Decker said, “Right around the corner and I never knew this place existed.”

“Neither did I.”

The Plymouth reached the mouth of the canyon and turned left. The first landmark they saw was a roofless barn, fronted with haystacks in the middle of a field of jersey cows. Five minutes later, they passed a one-story whitewashed house. Tacked atop the doorway was a hand-painted red-lettered sign, reading SAGEBRUSH CANYON GENERAL STORE. A half-mile farther was a stucco diner with an EATS signpost carved in the shape of an arrow. Across the road was an old-fashioned two-pump gas station, a phone booth, and a wooden shack. The strong smell of uric acid assaulted their nostrils.

“Something’s cookin’,” Decker said. “And it ain’t moonshine.”

Marge said, “Only one thing smells like that.”

“Two things,” Decker said. “You forgot about piss.”

Marge laughed. “We got meth. Now where are the bikers?”

“Close,” Decker said. “I guarantee you that.”

The valley once again turned into glistening fields—cow and sheep pastures. A mile later was a large wooden indoor-outdoor structure shaded by tall eucalyptus and thick-trunked olive trees. Souped-up Harleys, Honda GSMs, and BMW choppers were chained to posts on a side gravel lot. The front part of the building was an open patio set up with tables and chairs. Dozens of tattooed, shirtless bikers slumped lazily in their seats, shooting the breeze while they smoked cigarettes and joints, and guzzled beer. Some were completely naked from the waist up, others were shirtless but had donned leather vests. Most had oversized bellies and hair falling down their backs, the long strands tied away from their foreheads with red bandannas. A few of the men held skin-and-bone women on their laps, the girls looping stringy arms around their fat men’s necks.

“Our illustrious chemists,” Decker said.

“Meth,” Marge said. “Some things just go together—love and marriages…horses and carriages…bikers and uppers.”

Decker said, “I know the song, but I missed that verse.”

Marge said, “Just your old-fashioned cottage industry.”

Decker said, “If this were a movie, you and I would storm the place, crack open some heads, and demand some answers.”

Marge said, “Well, that’s the difference between Hollywood and reality. For one thing, Hollywood doesn’t concern itself with the ACLU and search-and-seizure laws. Not to mention the fact that these beer-drinking gentlemen are packing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re wary of a few motorcycle enthusiasts.”