The man searched the crowd when he reached the curb, saw Pike, and came to the table. He smiled as he offered his hand, flashing perfect teeth and dimples.

“Mr. Pike? Michael Azzara. Father Art told me I’d spot the arrows. May I sit?”

Pike nodded, noting he had introduced himself as Michael, not Mikie or Miguel. He was slick, clean, and as different in appearance from the street-dog veteranos at the body shop as the Prius was from a candy-red ’56 Bel Air. Miguel Azzara looked like a frat boy from USC, built strong, though, as if he had been a pretty good high-school wrestler.

Azzara sat, laced his fingers, and looked at Pike with an innocent curiosity.

“I love Father Art. He does so much for our community.”

Pike nodded, and waited for Azzara to continue.

“How can I help you?”

Now, seated, Pike noticed the skin on the side of Azzara’s neck was mottled with faint blemishes. When he was fourteen or fifteen, he had the ink, but sometime between then and now, he’d seen the laser. Small scars laced the knuckles of his left hand and split the line of his left eyebrow. Maybe he hadn’t always looked so different from the men at the body shop.

Pike lifted his cup.

“Want something?”

“That’s all right, thank you. How can I help?”

“You speak for Malevos?”

Azzara checked to see if the nearby women were listening. A woman in her late thirties saw him glance over, and smiled. Azzara smiled back, and looked like a movie star.

“Hey, how’re you doing?”

She blushed and turned back to her friends, pretending she wasn’t drooling. Azzara turned back to Pike.

“That’s why I’m here, yes. How can I help?”

Third time he’d said it—how can I help?

“Reuben Mendoza and Alberto Gomer.”

“Those guys are idiots. Mendoza was just arrested.”

“You know why?”

“I know I had to cover his bond. Is this about that?”

“I’m the man who put him down. Is that going to be a problem with us?”

Azzara looked surprised.

“Depends on what you want. If you want money for some reason—say, a payoff so you’ll refuse to testify—then, yes, it’s going to be a problem.”

“Nothing like that.”

“I didn’t think so. Not with Father Art vouching for you.”

Pike went through the events exactly as he had with Hydeck, Button, and Artie Alvarez. He told Azzara that Wilson Smith was a friend, and that now, early that morning, someone had vandalized his shop.

Azzara listened with a thoughtful frown, nodding occasionally in the way people do, and did not speak until Pike finished.

“Uh-huh, okay. I get it. These people are your friends. You don’t want them hassled.”

“That’s right.”

“Done.”