I kept my car in the Randall’s lot and walked the block to the motel. The place was a twelve-unit gray stucco C built around a central courtyard and open to the street. The yard was tiled with crumbling bricks, didn’t look as if it had been designed for parking, but four dirty compact cars and an equally grubby truck with a camper shell occupied the space. The office was off to the right—a cubicle that smelled of gym sweat manned by a young skin-headed Hispanic man wearing an aqua blue cowboy shirt with bloodred piping. Spangling on the yokes, too, but oily splotches in the armpits and ketchup-colored freckles across the front mitigated the garment’s charm. Resting on the pleat was a heavy iron crucifix attached to a stainless-steel chain.

My entry rang a bell over the door and the clerk shot a look at me then glanced under the counter. Reflexively. Probably checking out the requisite pistol. Or just wanting to let me know he was armed. A sign on the wall behind him said CASH ONLY. Same message in Spanish, right below. He didn’t move but his eyes jumped around and the left lid twitched. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two or -three, could probably take the adrenaline surges and blood-pressure spikes for a few more years.

I showed him the badge, and he shook his head. Atop the counter was a novella—black-and-white photos of characters speaking in captions, storyboard laid out like a comic book. Upside down I caught a few words “sexualismo” “con passion.”

He said, “Don’ know nothin’ ” Heavy accent.

“I haven’t asked anything.”

“Don’ know nothin’ ”

“Good for you,” I said. “Ignorance is bliss.”

His stare was dull.

“Pierce Schwinn,” I said. “He used to live here.”

No answer.

I repeated the name.

“Don’ know nothin’ ”

“An old man, Anglo, white hair, white beard?”

Nothing.

“He used to work at Randall’s.”

Uncomprehending look.

“Randall’s Western Wear—down the block?”

“Don’t know nothin’ ”

“What’s your name?”

“Don’ kno—” Lights on in the brown eyes. “Gustavo.”

“Gustavo what?”

“Gustavo Martinez Reyes.”

“You speak any English, Mr. Martinez Reyes?”

Headshake.

“Anyone work here who does?”

“Don’ know noth—”

So much for ace detective work. But I’d come this far, why not give Ojai another try—check out a place I knew Marge Schwinn had frequented. The shop where she’d bought the blue albums—O’Neill & Chapin . . . over by the Celestial Café . . . from England . . . discontinued . . . I bought the last three.

Maybe she hadn’t. Or maybe Schwinn had also shopped for himself.

I continued to the next freeway on-ramp and was back on Highway 33 within minutes. The air was cold and clean, every color on full volume, and I could smell ripening fruit in the neighboring groves.