As soon as Pepe had entered the picture, I hadn’t addressed my father by name or title. He had been equally circumspect with me. Even while Pepe snoozed, we didn’t chat; both of us knew people heard things in their sleep. It was a tense ride and I was dreadfully tired and sorely uncomfortable. Another ten minutes went by before Decker took the off-ramp into the heart of L.A. County industrial life. The air was thick with slag, smelt, and pollutants, and it hurt to breathe too deeply. The blocks were long—warehouse after warehouse—all of it monotonous and ugly.

The address Pepe had given us corresponded to a body-and-paint shop, and from what I could tell at first glance, it seemed to be a legitimate one. If it had been a chop shop, it would have been hidden. But it wasn’t. Also, there were no large semis, which provided the usual method for transporting stolen wares. But there were stacks of cars in an open lot, many of them in various states of disrepair. Nothing vintage, just worn and cheap. Renaldes jerked his head up and blinked several times.

He spoke to my father in Spanish. Dad nodded and parked across the street in another open lot. We sat for a moment, thinking about a game plan. Pepe had slumped low in his seat. Again he spoke in Spanish. I recognized anxiety in his voice. My father translated.

“He said the owners of this garage are subcontractors for some used-car sellers. They do the painting and bodywork for the dealers. Sometimes they smuggle the hot cars in with the legit cars. Sometimes the dealers buy them. They don’t ask questions.”

More Spanish.

The Loo said, “The guys have guns. He told me to be careful.”

Renaldes said, “Habla con Señor Angus o Señor Morton. Yo no puedo entrar. … I no go inside. Dey keel me.”

“Let him stay here,” I told my father.

“All right,” Decker said. “Just keep an eye on him.”

“I’m going in with you. They have guns, you need backup.”

“I’m not planning on a shooting match.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t planning on getting shot at, either.” I leaned over the passenger’s seat and flashed Pepe three 20s from this morning’s ATM withdrawal. I tore them in two and put half in Pepe’s pocket. “You stay there nice and quiet, you not only get to go home, but you’ll be sixty bucks richer.” To my father, “Can you translate that?”

“When it comes to money, I’m sure he understands.”

I gently thumped the back of my father’s seat. “I’m squished. Let’s go.”

He got out first, then gave me a hand. The parking lot was un-paved and all dust. The Porsche’s tires had churned up the dirt and it was still flying in the air as we walked toward the body shop.

“Let me do the talking,” I told Decker. “I’m less threatening and you’re a better shot if it should come to that.”

“What are you going to say?”