Concourse Auto Restorers was one of the many car-oriented businesses lining Van Nuys Boulevard between Riverside and Oxnard. Modest setup—not much more than a double, tin-roofed garage behind an open lot filled with chrome and lacquer. A sign above the garage, done up in red Day-Glo Gothic lettering, advertised “CUSTOM PAINT, PLATING, AND BODY-OFF RESTORATION” above a cartoonish rendering of an equally red, priapic Ferrari coupe. I parked on the street and made my way among muscle cars, hot rods, and one very white stretch Mercedes with its roof hacked off and a blue tarp spread across its interior. Years ago the state had passed laws restricting outdoor spray painting, but the air above Concourse Auto was chemically ripe.

Midway up the lot, two men in greasy T-shirts and baggy cutoffs were inspecting the doors of a seventies Stutz Blackhawk done up in the same copper finish as a gourmet frypan. Both were young and husky and Hispanic, with shaved heads and mustaches. Face masks hung around their necks. Their arms and the back of their necks were brocaded with tattoos. The inkwork was dusky blue, square-edged and crude—prison handiwork. They barely raised their eyes as I passed, but both were paying attention. My nod evoked squints.

“Vance Coury?” I said.

“In there,” said the heavier of the two, curling a thumb toward the garage. His voice was high-pitched, and a teardrop tattoo dripped under one eye. That’s supposed to mean you’ve murdered someone, but some people brag. This fellow had a hunched posture and flat eyes, and boasting didn’t seem his style.

I moved on.

As I got closer to the garage, I saw that my first impression of a small lot had been wrong. A driveway ran to the left of the building, and it led to a rear half acre of chain-linked dirt piled high with tires and fenders, bumpers and broken headlights and random garbage. Two spray booths were affixed to the rear outer wall of the garage, and a few intact cars were parked in the dirt, but most of the land was dumping ground.