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left by fingernails. A hank of long blond hair lay on the carpet at his feet. The sheets were mussed.
    "Frisky cunt. I like 'em that way." Uncle Pete folded the rag and reapplied it, his flat eyes never leaving his task. A rubber-banded thatch of beard poked out from his chin like a stiff rope. "You the ones behind all the sudden interest from the heat? We're catching a lot of static on the streets."
    "Yup," Tim said. "That'd be us."
    Uncle Pete shook his head. "Some mornings, it just ain't worth chewin' through the four-point restraints." He raised his head, and his eyes sharpened. "Get that Mexican outta here."
    Guerrera's voice came out a little tighter than usual. "I'm Cuban."
    "Oh. Well, then..." Pete laughed, his chest rippling beneath the undershirt. "Don't want no spics of any kind in here. Just born-and-bred Americans."
    "Okay, Pocahontas."
    Uncle Pete stared at Tim, figuring him for the front man. "Get that spic out of here or no conversation."
    Guerrera started for the biker, sharply, but Tim stepped in front of him, cutting off his advance while keeping his eyes on Pete. Guerrera stayed pressed against Tim's back but didn't move to brush past him.
    Pete seemed invigorated by Guerrera's reaction. "Get the spic out of my clubhouse."
    "You want him out, you get him out," Tim said. Bear ostentatiously took up position beside Guerrera.
    Uncle Pete squinted through the dim light, no doubt debating an escalation, but then he smiled. "I recognize you. Vigilante guy, right? You're the one who croaked all those motherfuckers back when. You need a nickname."
    "Use my real name, thanks."
    "Sorry, pal, everyone gets a nickname." Uncle Pete rolled his head back on his neck, appraising Tim. The rag disappeared in the swirled sheets, Pete's thick hand in the pouf of hair at the dog's hindquarters. "I'm gonna call you Troubleshooter."
    "Original," Bear said. "You might want to take out a trademark."
    "Right. I thought I heard it somewhere. Fox News, maybe."
    "You know why we're here?" Tim asked.
    "Does a crack baby shake?"
    "Den's your go-to guy, your hard charger. He and Kaner don't get sprung without word from the top."
    "Den don't take no orders. And there is no top. Us Sinners, we're grass-roots all the way."
    "What do you need him out for?"
    "I don't have to talk to you."
    "What am I gonna say?"
    "Huh?"
    "You're a bright guy, Uncle Pete. What am I gonna say?"
    The furrow between Pete's eyebrows disappeared. He didn't smile, but his expression held amusement, almost delight. "You'll get a warrant and you'll make my life hell."
    "Right. So."
    Uncle Pete lifted his obese frame from the mattress; even Bear looked narrow by comparison. Pete rooted in a drawer, pulled out a digital recorder, and set it on top of the bureau beside a Z-shaped piece of metal. The bed groaned under his weight when he settled back onto it. He lit up a cigarette, inhaled with obvious satisfaction, and beckoned for the next question.
    "Where are they?"
    "I have no idea. That's why they're nomads, ya see. No-mads. Look it up."
    "How about Goat, Tom-Tom, and Chief? We want to chat with them, too. Know where they are?"
    "Sure. Follow the asphalt to the PCH turn by Point Dume. The twenty-foot skid mark? That's Goat's face." Pete's booming laugh ended in a coughing fit. "You're welcome to see if it'll talk back." He tugged at his protuberance of a beard, his smile fading. "You citizens don't got no sense of humor. That's what I hate about you. You and the whole citizens' world. I am so far lost from what this fuckin' nation represents. I read the papers, watch the TV. It disgusts me. It don't reflect me. So I say, fuck it. I won't reflect it." He was winding up, a man used to being listened to. "This country's all about what you can't do. Can't speed, can't buy a whore, can't smoke a joint. We can't even ride our hogs without helmets now. We got a funeral tomorrow for Nigger Steve--we can't see him off like warriors."
    "Warriors don't wear helmets?"
    "Not our