The unmarked crawled along with the traffic. Spanish on the signs, cut-rate merchandise hawked on the sidewalk. Plastic bags of fruit and bunches of carnations dyed in unnatural tones were displayed by small, cinnamon-skinned men who’d bargained with death to get over the border. Behind us was the park.

Milo said, “Is it melting in the rain?”

“Not much rain in awhile,” I said.

“Melting in the smog, then . . . well, look at that.” He cocked his head toward the passenger window.

I turned and saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What?”

“A heroin deal just went down in front of that photography studio. Lowlifes not even bothering to hide it— okay, here we are.” He pulled up in the red zone. A line of people curled at the takeout window of Taqueria Grande. The building was blue stucco chipped white at the corners. An expansion would’ve made it the size of a single-car garage.

Milo said, “I’d like to see Taqueria Pequeña,” adjusted his harness holster, slipped on his jacket, and got out.

We waited in line. The smell of pork and corn and onions blew through the window and out to the curb. The prices were good, the portions benevolent. Customers paid with soiled dollar bills and coinage and counted their change carefully. Two people worked the stand, a young man at the deep fryers and a short, round, middle-aged woman handling the public.

The fry cook was twenty or so, thin and sharp-chinned. He wore a blue bandanna on his head. What was visible of his hair was clipped to the skin and tattoos explored his arms. All around him, grease arced and spattered. No screen guards, and I could see airborne specks land on his arms and face. It had to hurt. He worked steadily, remained expressionless.

The customer in front of us collected his tamales and rice and agua de tamarindo and we stepped up. The round woman had her hair pinned up. The makeup she’d put on that morning was doing battle with sweat. Her pencil poised without looking up. “Que?”

Milo said, “Ma’am,” and showed her his I.D.

Her smile was slow to settle in. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m looking for Nestor Almedeira.”

The smile closed up instantaneously, like a sea anemone reacting to being prodded. She shook her head.

Milo eyed the man in the bandanna. “That’s not him?”

The woman shifted to one side and peered around Milo’s bulk. Several customers had queued up behind us but now they were drifting away. “Carlos.”

“Could we see Carlos’s I.D., please?”

“He got no driver’s license.”

“I’ll see whatever he has, ma’am.”

She pivoted and shouted something in Spanish. Bandanna tensed up, drew his hand away from the fryer, and eyed the back door.

Milo said, “Tell him if he’s not Nestor, there’ll be no problem. Of any sort.”