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secret communication. A car passed me, going in the opposite direction, but there were no pedestrians in sight. I’m not often out at such an hour, and it was curiously exhilarating.
    By day, Santa Teresa seems like any small southern California town. Churches and businesses hug the ground against the threat of earthquakes. The rooflines are low, and the architectural influence is largely Spanish. There’s something solid and reassuring about all the white adobe and the red tile roofs. Lawns are manicured, and the shrubs are crisply trimmed. By night the same features seem starkand dramatic, full of black-and-white contrasts that lend intensity to the hardscape. The sky at night isn’t really black at all. It’s a soft charcoal gray, nearly chalky with light pollution, the trees like ink stains on a darkened carpet. Even the wind has a different feel to it, as light as a feather quilt against the skin.
    The real name for CC’s is the Caliente Cafe, a low-rent establishment housed in an abandoned service station near the railroad tracks. The original gasoline pumps and the storage tanks below had been removed years before, and the contaminated soil had been paved over with asphalt. Now, on hot days the blacktop tends to soften and a toxic syrup seeps out, a tarry liquid quickly converted into wisps of smoke, suggesting that the tarmac is on the verge of bursting into flames. Winters, the pavement cracks from dry cold, and a sulfurous smell wafts across the parking lot. CC’s is not the kind of place to encourage bare feet.
    I parked out in front beneath a sizzling red neon sign. Outside, the air smelled like corn tortillas fried in lard; inside, like salsa and recirculated cigarette smoke. I could hear the high-pitched whine of a blender working overtime, whipping ice and tequila into the margarita mix. The Caliente Cafe bills itself as an “authentic” Mexican cantina, which means the “day-core” consists of Mexican sombreros tacked above the doors. Bad lighting eliminates the need for anything else. Every item on the menu has been Americanized, and all the names are cute: Ensanada Ensalada, Pasta Pequeño, Linguini Bambini. The music, all canned, is usually played way too loud, like a band of mariachis hired to hover at your table while you try to eat.
    Cheney Phillips was sitting at the bar, his face tilted in my direction. My request for an audience had clearlypiqued his interest. Cheney was probably in his early thirties: a white guy with a disheveled mop of dark curly hair, dark eyes, good chin, prickly two-day growth of beard. His was the sort of face you might see in a men’s fashion magazine or the society section of the local papers, escorting some debutante decked out like a bride. He was slim, of medium height, wearing a tobacco-brown silk sport coat over a white dress shirt, his pants a pleated cream-colored gabardine. His air of confidence suggested money of intimidating origins. Everything about him said trust fund, private schools, and casual West Coast privilege. This is pure projection on my part, and I have no idea if it’s accurate. I’ve never really asked him how he ended up a cop. For all I know, he’s third-generation law enforcement with all the women in his family doing jail administration.
    I eased up onto the bar stool next to his. “Hello, Cheney. How are you? Thanks for waiting. I appreciate it.”
    He shrugged. “I’m usually here until closing time anyway. Can I buy you a drink?”
    â€œOf course. I’m so wired on coffee I may never get to sleep.”
    â€œWhat’s your pleasure?”
    â€œChardonnay, if you please.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” he said. He smiled, revealing first-rate orthodontic work. No one could have teeth that straight without years of expensive correction. Cheney’s manner was habitually seductive and never more so than in a setting such as this.
    The bartender had been watching