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hand, was pressing it against the cut on his forehead.
     “Nothing,” he said. “How come you’re here?”
    “How come?” Fritzie said. “I’m a cop, Bernie.”
    “Pretty far from your beat,” Bernie said.
    “My beat is the whole Valley, freeway-wise,” Fritzie said. “I roam the land. But the
     fact is I was on a break just over at DonutHeaven when the call came in.” He glanced down at the biker. “Dead?”
    “Yup,” Bernie said.
    “What happened?” said Fritzie.
    Bernie started explaining things. My name came up once or twice in what sounded like
     a very nice way, but my mind kept having thoughts about Donut Heaven, my favorite
     place for crullers, and don’t get me started on the bear claws. Lucky Fritzie!
    Fritzie gave the biker a closer look. “Think he’s over seventeen?”
    “Way over,” Bernie said.
    “Then I can’t write him up on a twenty-eight dash nine sixty-four.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Helmet law violation.”
    “He’s dead.”
    “I’d have to check on the finer points,” Fritzie said.
    An ambulance drove up, and then a couple of cruisers and an unmarked car. Some uniformed
     cops came over, plus Captain Stine wearing a dark suit. Captain Stine was a very watchful
     dude with deep dark eyes and a sharp kind of nose. He used to be Lieutenant Stine
     and had gotten to be Captain Stine on account of us, but in ways I couldn’t remember
     exactly or even not exactly. The point is, we’d always been careful around him and
     still were.
    “What’s with your forehead?” Stine said.
    “Nothing,” said Bernie.
    Stine gazed down at the biker. “Dead, huh?”
    Bernie nodded.
    “Take me through it.”
    Bernie took him through it. Meanwhile, the back doors of the ambulance opened up and
     out came Doc Devine, an EMTbuddy of ours. Doc Devine had been an actual doctor back when we’d first known him,
     not pals at all at that time, and then had done a spell up at Northern Correctional
     by reason of us busting him—and now we were pals. What a world!
    “Hey, Chet,” he said, giving me a pat. “Lookin’ good, big guy.” I bumped up against
     him in my palliest way. Doc was a little dude, which I’d forgotten to take into account,
     but he didn’t fall all the way flat down, so no harm done.
    Meanwhile, Bernie and Captain Stine were squatting on either side of the biker. Stine
     snapped on surgical gloves, checked all the biker’s pockets, finding nothing, and
     then rolled back one of the biker’s sleeves. He raised the limp arm, shone a flashlight
     on the inside of his wrist, revealing a small tattoo.
    “See this?” he said.
    “A Q?” Bernie said.
    “Stands for Quieros. Mean anything to you?”
    “Besides the fact that quiero means ‘I want’?” Bernie said. “Nope.”
    “Haven’t heard of the Quieros?”
    “Thought I made that clear.”
    Stine glared at Bernie over the biker’s body. “Why are you like this?”
    “Like what?” Bernie said.
    “Like the way you are,” Stine said. “A son of a bitch.”
    Bernie smiled. There was blood on his teeth, but not much. “Some combination of heredity
     and environment,” he said.
    Stine smiled, too. Had I ever seen him smile before? It was a small smile, and quickly
     gone, but his eyes joined in, which is always the best.
    “Quieros sort of means I Wants,” said Stine. “I think it’s supposed to be funny.”
    “I don’t get it,” Bernie said. I was totally with him on that. We’re a lot alike in
     some ways, me and Bernie; don’t forget that.
    “They’re a gang,” Stine said. “Kind of new, originally from Central America somewhere.”
    “And the name is the mission statement?” Bernie said.
    “You got it,” Stine said. “They have wants. Sure you haven’t heard of them?”
    “Why do you keep asking?”
    “Because this guy just tried to take you out.” Stine let go of the biker’s arm. It
     fell heavily to the pavement, bounced up the tiniest bit, then lay still. “I always