Randall’s Western Wear was a red barn in the center of the strip, stuck between Bernardo’s Batteries and a windowless bar called El Guapo. Plenty of parking in back; only two pickups and an old Chrysler 300 in the lot.

Inside was the smell of leather and sawdust and sweat, ceiling-high racks of denim and flannel, Stetsons stacked like waffles, cowboy boots and belts on sale, one corner devoted to sacks of feed, a few saddles and bridles off in another. Travis Tritt’s mellow baritone eased through scratchy speakers, trying to convince some woman of his good intentions.

Slow day in the ranch-duds biz. No customers, just two salesmen on duty, both white men in their thirties. One wore gray sweats, the other jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Both smoked behind the counter, showing no interest in my arrival.

I browsed, found a tooled cowhide belt that I liked, brought it to the counter and paid. Harley-D rang me up, offering no eye contact or conversation. As he handed back my credit card, I let my wallet open and showed him my LAPD consultant badge. It’s a clip-on deal with the department’s badge as a logo, not good for much and if you look closely it tells you that I’m no cop. But few people get past the insignia, and Harley was no exception.

“Police?” he said, as I closed the wallet. He wore a bad haircut like his own badge of honor, had a handlebar mustache that drooped to his chin, and a clogged-sinus voice. Stringy arms and stringy hair, a scatter of faded tattoos.

I said, “Thought maybe you could help me with something.”

“With what?”

Sweats looked up. He was a few years younger than Harley, with a blond-gray crew cut, a square shelf of a chin finishing a florid face. Stocky build, quiet eyes. My guess was ex-military.

“A few questions about a guy who worked here a while back. Pierce Schwinn.”

“Him?” said Harley. “He hasn’t been here for what—coupla years?” He looked back at Sweats.

“Coupla,” Sweats agreed.

Harley looked at the belt. “What, you bought that to get friendly or something?”

“I bought it because it’s a nice belt,” I said. “But I have no problem with being friendly. What do you remember about Schwinn?”

Harley frowned. “When he worked here he was a bum. What’s up with him now?”

“Have you seen him since he stopped working here?”

“Maybe once,” he said. “Or maybe not. If he did come in, it was with his wife—that right?” Another consultation with Sweats.

“Probably.”

“Why?” said Harley. “What he do?”

“Nothing. Just a routine investigation.” Even as I said it, I felt ridiculous, not to mention criminal. But if Milo could risk violations of the public order, so could I. “So the last time Mr. Schwinn worked here was a couple of years ago?”