“I’m not sure I could if I tried.”

  “Well, good. I’ve heard a few corny ones, trust me.” She pulled her sock-clad feet up on my couch and hugged her knees. Her socks were pristine white. How girls kept their socks so damn white was a mystery to me.

  “Who are you?” I asked again.

  “I told you.”

  “No, you told me your name, which just so happens to be the name of the most reliable car in America.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Just an observation. Now, start talking.”

  She looked at me with eyes that weren’t fully awake, or alert, or aware. She might have been a little high. She was cute, in a strung-out kind of way. Dark rings around high cheekbones. Pale skin. Soft muscles hanging loose over a longish frame. She could have been beautiful. But for now, she had to settle for cute with a chaser of ‘what could have been.’

  “I need your help,” she said finally. “But first, I would like some coffee.”

  I looked at her. She looked at me. Neither of us budged until I remembered her bruises and her bloody lip, which now hung in a pout. I sighed, pushed off the desk and headed over to the sink. Once there, I washed the coffee pot, slipped in a new filter, guesstimated the right amount of Folgers, and turned on Señor Café, which sounded more erotic than it should have.

  While we waited, Camry was content to sit quietly on the couch, hugging her knees and looking forlorn. While the coffeemaker came to life, belching and hissing, I leaned against the little counter. A few years ago, I had tried to do incline push-ups against the little counter and had nearly torn the whole thing out of the wall.

  “How did you get inside my office?” I finally asked.

  For an answer, she reached inside her purse and pulled out a curious-looking gun-shaped tool that looked familiar. In fact, I had one in my desk drawer. It was a lock-pick gun.

  “That would do it,” I said, making a mental note to invest in a double-deadbolt for the door. “So you’re a thief?”

  She looked at me long and hard, although her eyes might have wavered a little. Being high does that. Finally, she nodded. “When I have to be.”

  “For drugs?”

  “Is there another reason?” she asked.

  “For the thrill of it?”

  She shook her head and reached down for her pack of cigarettes, but as she did so, I shook my head and she sighed and dropped the pack back into her purse. “Sometimes, there’s a thrill. Mostly, I’m terrified.”

  “You seemed real terrified,” I said, “when I caught you drooling on my couch.”

  She snorted and wiped the corner of her mouth. “Well, I wasn’t robbing you. I was exhausted. It seemed like, you know, a safe place to crash. Besides, there’s nothing here to rob.”

  “Ouch.”

  Behind me, my computer chimed. An email. It took all of my considerable willpower not to check it.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  “So, why are you here?”

  “I need protection.”

  “From whom?”

  She pushed up the sleeve of her shirt and showed me another tattoo. It was of a logo I was familiar with. Mostly I had seen it on the backs of leather jackets, worn by guys with long beards, long hair and loud motorcycles.

  “From them.”

  Chapter Three

  Next, she asked if I had any food.

  I held up my coffee cup and said, “You’re looking at it.”

  She said, “Don’t be mean,” and started crying, and the next thing I knew I was in the drive-thru at Jack-in-the-Box, ordering her a breakfast croissant and juice, and for me, the entire left side of the menu.

  Camry was asleep when I returned. I suspected the waterworks had been a ploy. Speaking of waterworks, yes, there was more drool. Stay classy, Huntington Beach.

  I dropped her bag next to her and said, “Breakfast.”

  She gasped and sat up. Chuckling, I went behind my desk and dug into my own two bags. Soon, we were making munching sounds.

  “How did you hear about me?” I asked between sounds.

  “I looked you up in an old phone book. I thought your name was the coolest one in the Yellow Pages.”

  “It is, and people still have those? Phone books?”

  She didn’t look at me while she ate. “Yes, why?”

  I shrugged, although she didn’t see me shrug. “I was making a social commentary on the progress of technology.”

  “Sounded more like a stupid question to me.”

  “That, too.” I generally didn’t take much to heart, especially from someone who was hungry, alone, hurting, and on the run. Whether or not she was a good person, I didn’t much care. Whether or not I did my job right, kept her safe, and thwarted the evildoers, was a different story. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “Obamacare,” I said. “Or why you need protection. You pick.”

  “You think you’re funny or something?”

  “Or something,” I said.

  “I don’t think you’re funny.”

  “Neither did Mrs. Neville.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “My sixth-grade teacher.”

  “If I tell you about it, will you stop with the jokes?”

  “Probably not.”

  She thought about that as she munched on the last of the croissant sandwich I’d brought for her, a croissant sandwich that she’d yet to thank me for. After a moment, she shrugged and told me the story.

  It had been a wild night of partying. In fact, every night was a wild night of partying. Camry was often high or drunk or both. She was Steel Eye’s girl and everyone knew it and stayed away.

  “Did you say Steel Eye?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. “Carry on.”

  Everyone respected her and treated her as one of the guys. Except for one guy. One guy she had found interesting. One guy who was now dead. His name had been J-Bird.

  “All we were doing was talking,” said Camry, looking away and rubbing the back of her neck, “when Steel Eye flipped out.”

  “What else were you two doing?”

  She did more neck-rubbing and shrugging, but now she wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “We were maybe kissing, too.”

  “I take it Steel Toe didn’t appreciate another man kissing his girl.”

  “Steel Eye, and yeah, you could say that.”

  “Did J-Bird understand the ramifications of kissing you?”

  “He loved me. He would have done anything for me.”

  “Did you love him?”

  She shrugged, looked away. “I thought he was interesting.”

  “You led him on.”

  “I might have flirted—”

  “Did you encourage him?”

  She shrugged. “I was bored.”

  “And now he’s dead,” I said. “Still bored?”

  “No. Now, I’m scared.”

  I shook my head. “I think you knew what would happen to J-Bird. I think you knew that Steel Balls—”

  “Eye.”

  “—would come for J-Bird, probably even kill him. I don’t think you cared much about the Birdman at all, because you were bored. I think you wanted some excitement. I think you got more excitement than you bargained for.”

  I watched her carefully. Her jaw rippled. She was angry. I watched her fists tighten around her napkin, the knuckles showing white. Then her hand opened a little and her jaw slackened. She looked at me with real tears in her eyes. It was a complete metamorphosis. “He promised to get me out of the gang. We talked quietly, secretly. For days. And one night we were both drinking and we got carried away.”

  I waited, watching her. Outside, something heavy rumbled along Beach Boulevard. The window in my office actually rattled. On the wall behind me, surrounding the window, were dozens of framed photographs and articles that featured yours truly. Back in the day, I was someone important. Now, I was only important to Cindy, my girlfriend, and Junior, my dog, which was good enough for me.

  “But that didn’t mean the son-of-a-bitch had to kill him. He fucking shot him. Right there.”

  “Did you see Steel Eye shoot him?”

  “No. He’d slapped me. I was on the ground, crying. J-Bird tried to protect me from getting kicked and I heard them drag J-Bird away. Heard them beat him up pretty good. And then...”

  “And then what?”

  “They shot him in some bushes near the Pit.”

  “The Pit?”

  “The fire pit we all hung out at.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Because that’s what bikers do, hang out in the desert around fire pits.”

  She said nothing. I didn’t think she even heard me. After listening to her sobs and the steady drone of the afternoon traffic, I asked, “Where’s the Pit?”

  “What?”

  “The Pit. Where’s the Pit located?”

  “The desert somewhere.”

  “What desert? Joshua Tree? Mohave? Serengeti?”

  “I don’t know. I just ride. I go where Steel Eye takes me.”

  “Is it in California?” I started the twenty questions game.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the biggest city you can remember passing through?”

  She thought about that for a long moment. “Palm Springs. Down the 111.”

  Yeah, there was a lot of desert around Palm Springs. Not a lot to go on, but I’d taken cases more vague than this.

  “Any interesting scenery down that way?”

  “The Salton Sea. There were pelicans. Wait, I do remember something.” She paused. “There was a kitschy sign. It said, ‘Slab City. Welcome.’ Just after the sign was the turnoff we took. To the right. Dirt road goes right past the Pit.”

  Bingo. It only took three questions to get it out of her. I was that good. I knew the place, too. Slab City, a former military base, was now an RV squatters’ town full of impromptu flea markets and drug commerce. Drifters and grifters.

  I said, “What’s Steel Eye’s real name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about J-Bird?”

  “Jason, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes.”

  “His last name?”

  “I don’t know. These guys don’t use last names.”

  “Did you see him get shot?”

  “No, but I heard the shot. That’s when I ran. I figured I was next.”

  “You ran all the way to Huntington Beach?”

  “No. I ran to someone’s unoccupied RV and broke in. I holed up and called a friend from inside it. It was freaking hot in there. He picked me up and took me to West L.A.”

  “Go on.”

  “I stayed with my friend in Culver City for a few days, but he was scared. He dropped me off here.”

  I nodded. “Lucky me. Who’s your friend?”

  “An old drug connection. When my money was gone, though, he wanted me to leave.”

  “Did you shoot up on my couch?”

  She didn’t reply.

  Chapter Four

  I was at a place called Smokey’s.

  It wasn’t much of a place, but it served beer, so it couldn’t have been that bad. I was sitting in the shadows at the short end of an L-shaped bar, my back to the wall. I think I might have been a cowboy in a past life. And a knight, of course. And, if I went back far enough, probably a barbarian, too. I could imagine myself on a horse, with a broadsword strapped to my back, wearing a loincloth, doing whatever the hell it was that barbarians did. Probably kicking a lot of ass and drinking grog. Yeah, that sounded like me.

  “You want another beer?” asked the bartender, who might have been Charles Manson’s twin brother, minus the crazy eyes.

  “Do you think I’d make a good Viking?” I asked.

  “You want another fucking beer or not?”

  “Sure, matey,” I said. Yeah, I was definitely a pirate, too.

  “You giving Stones a hard time?” said a voice coming toward me on my right, a voice that belonged to a young, blond guy with longish hair, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. That the black T-shirt sported a white skull with red devil horns was a given. Although Michael weighed a buck-sixty, dripping wet, he was a tough little dude that might—might—give even me a problem.

  “Stones?” I said.

  “Yeah, Stones,” said Michael coming up to me and clasping my hand and arm with a firm grip in a long-time-no-see bro shake. He smelled of hard liquor and cigarettes and probably weed, too. Mixed with all of that was a touch of body odor and cologne and bike grease. He smelled, basically, like a real man. He added, “I think the name refers to his balls, or lack thereof.”

  “Lost them in the war?”

  “What war, Knighthorse?”

  “Seemed like the thing to say.”

  Michael shook his head and raised his finger, a gesture that Stones saw instantly.

  “Lost them to cancer, Knighthorse.”

  “What was his name before?”

  “Phil.”

  I nodded, picked up the last of my first beer. “I like Stones better.”

  “Most do.” Michael reached for his beer. If Stones knew we were talking about him, he didn’t show it. Michael drank deeply, then glanced at me. He was a young guy, no more than twenty-five. But he had seen much, done much, and talked about even less. What I knew about him was enough to impress even me. “So, what’s going on, Knighthorse?” he asked.

  “Thanks for meeting me. I have a Devil’s Triangle question. I assume you’re still affiliated.”

  Michael gave me a wry smile, one that suggested that I had said something very stupid. “I’m in for life, Knighthorse. We all are.”

  “Can I see the tattoo again?” I asked.

  “This ain’t show-and-tell, big guy.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  He leaned over and showed me the inside of his arm, and revealed the tattoo I had seen a few years ago, back when I first met him on one of my investigations, an investigation in which he had been witness to a murder, a murder he still wouldn’t speak about. The tattoo was, of course, the same tattoo that was on Camry’s forearm. A triangle with a laughing devil in the middle. It always looked creepy as hell to me.

  I told him about Camry. I told him about Steel Eye and J-Bird, too. As I did so, I bought Michael another beer.

  “So, you think buying me two beers is enough to spill my guts about my fellow brothers?”

  “I think it’s enough for you to help me out, in whatever capacity you deem appropriate.”

  He thought about what he wanted to say. While he thought, he drank some beer. “There are lots of charters,” he said. “The Devil’s Triangle is wide and far-reaching. Hell, we even have charters in Europe and South America.”

  “Everyone wants to be an outlaw.”

  “We’re not outlaws, Knighthorse. At least, not officially.”

  “Fine. And unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, we make ends meet.”

  “Drugs, prostitution, theft?”

  “The list goes on and on, Knighthorse. You don’t join the Devil’s Triangle because you’re a good guy wanting to do good things in the world.”

  “Why did you come to the DT?” I asked, using the common reference to the Devil’s Triangle.

  “Because I wanted to party. Because I wanted to be free. Because I wanted to give the finger to the establishment. Because I wanted to live hard, fight hard, party hard.”

  “Are we partying hard now?” I asked.

  “Not now, Knighthorse. But I can take you to one of our parties. Hell, you just might fit in.”

  “Maybe another time.”

  “We’re always around, Knighthorse. Always ready to party.”

  “Does the partying begin after you guys get off work, and end at a sensible hour?”

  Michael, with his steel-blue eyes, broken nose, a scar over his right eye, and chipped front tooth, looked at me briefly, then threw back his head. “Never, Knighthorse. Just hearing those words...work and sensible...send a shiver through me.”

  “Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work.”

  “And nothing wrong with living free, Jim.”

  “Freedom is relative,” I said. “You’ve been to jail three times.”

  “Never said there wasn’t a price to pay for life lived on the fringe, Knighthorse. If going to jail three or four times is the price I have to pay, then so be it.”

  “I’m leaning toward that we might have different outlooks on life.”

  “Maybe not so different, Knighthorse. You work as a private eye. You work for yourself. You take the jobs as they come to you, work your own hours, work when you want to.”

  “I work where the job takes me. Like here.”

  He laughed again. “This isn’t work, Knighthorse. This is living, bro.”

  “Kind of feels like work.”

  He laughed again and slapped me on the shoulder as he stood. “So what, exactly, do you want from me, Jim?”

  “I want to talk to Steel Eye, and I want to know about the guy he killed.”

  He looked at me long and hard, with his own steel eyes. He might have been smaller than me, but he oozed toughness. I suspected I oozed toughness, too, but I didn’t think Michael cared. Instead, he was weighing how much of a friend I was compared to the amount of shit he might find himself in by helping me.

  Finally, he nodded and said, “I’ll see what I can do, Jim,” and he patted me on the shoulder and left me with the bill.

  Yeah, it definitely felt like work.

  Chapter Five

  It was late and we were both in bed, but not together. I hate when that happens. Instead, Cindy and I were on the phone.

  “Did you say her name was Camry?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “I’ve owned two Camrys,” said Cindy.

  “Nothing to be proud of.”

  “They were good cars.”

  “Still nothing to be proud of.”

  “And she’s sleeping in your living room?”

  “She is, yes.”

  “And she paid your standard retainer fee?”

  “She did not.”

  “Then what, exactly, did she pay?”