I shook my head a little. “I’m not kidding. You used to date my next-door neighbor, Emil. Emil Elkaim.”

Now she looked right through me, wheels spinning double-time.

Cold: “I don’t know that name.”

I smiled, to soften the blow. “The heck you don’t.”

Turning back to her wine box, pulling a long string of fake pearls, she said, “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I get that a lot—”

“We went in a convertible fiberglass MG. Your nickname’s Cinnamon. Was Cinnamon.”

Through gritted teeth, she said, “Steno pool.”

Three of the dogs snapped to attention, stared me down with caution. One started growling—a nasty-looking dark shepherd, hot to show teeth. On instinct, I raised my hands.

“I don’t mean any harm.”

“I don’t know you,” she said coolly. “And I think you should leave my store.”

“But I know you.” I spoke super slow, hands in the air, one eye on the dogs. “You’re Cynthia Persky, manager of The Daily Telegraph.”

Now out of nowhere, without a command, one fat pitbull got closer to my heel, and the very impatient-looking shepherd knelt to lunge position. My adrenaline was pumping haywire.

“What do you want?” she said with undisguised disgust.

“Please tell these guys to back off,” I said. “I’ve got no reason to turn you in or expose you or whatever. That won’t help me at all.”

“My husband will be back soon. He doesn’t—he—”

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t. He doesn’t know anything. You need to leave.”

“You’ve got to talk to me.”

“I can’t.”

“But you have to. Otherwise, I’ll have to tell him…” I shrugged. “Everything.”

She spat out some gibberish word and double-clapped. Disappointed, the hounds slumped away. One cocky terrier wandered past me. My hands dropped and I breathed relief. But she was livid.

Through gritted teeth, she said, “I can’t talk here.”

“Devon Hawley Junior was murdered last week.”

She kept one eye on the door. “I heard that. Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m Adam. I used to live across the street from Emil. You babysat me and my sister, we went to Disneyland in Emil’s MG and—I’m from the old neighborhood.”

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Please go away.”

All around me, the dogs, my former enemies, struggled to read the moment.

At that very second the bell rang and I angled fast, fake-browsed the Mickey phone. A tall, burly, tattooed man with a long gray beard and a biker’s cut lumbered in with a cardboard box. Her whole countenance changed—she moved toward him with fake morning ease, relieved him of the box, and gave him a kiss.

“Baby,” she said, “take those to the back room.”

“But they aren’t sorted.”

“I know—sort that shit now, please. And don’t get it mixed up with the stuff that’s already priced.”

The old rebel gave Cinnamon an aggravated, affronted look. “All of ’em?”

She said, “Pretty please?” and he grumbled, made his way to the back, looking harassed. When he was out of earshot, Cinnamon turned to me and hard-whispered. “I’ll meet you later.”

“Where?”

“Not here,” She was edgy, frantic. “The Bootlegger, at midnight. My husband has a night shift.”

I nodded cool, pulled the CD from my coat pocket, and handed it to her—THE DAILY TELEGRAPH DEL CYD in fast black Sharpie—she held it like kryptonite. Then she made a firm head motion for me to split.

28

The Bootlegger was a refurbish of the old Don the Beachcomber—red and warm and lantern-lit, still crowded with the chatty and the Hawaiian-shirted. Over the loudspeakers, Alex Keack, Surfer’s Paradise. I took the last empty booth in the far back, ordered a Navy grog, and watched and waited. It was a comical place to sit alone—carved wooden tiki faces loomed from every corner—but I wasn’t feeling comical. I was too keyed up for any kind of paradise, surfer or otherwise.

Cynthia “Cinnamon” Persky, now per Google Deborah Summers, owner of the Dogs of Yesteryear, came in thirty-five minutes after midnight in a long brown patchwork coat. She got in across from me and stared me down. Her eyes were wet, eyeliner a little smeared, but her color was high, kinetic, just this side of anger, and she already smelled of drink. She twirled a big, loose button on the coat and studied me.

“I wasn’t going to come.”

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“I remember you,” she said somberly. “You were just a little boy.”

“Cinnamon,” I said, “Deborah. I don’t mean to barge in, and I don’t—”

“Why are you doing this, Adam? This is some bad shit you’re stirring up—and it’s the past.”

“I know but—”

“What do you hope to get out of unearthing all this ugliness?”

“I didn’t unearth it,” I said. “Devon Hawley did, and look what happened—”

“Exactly,” she said, leaning in. “Which means someone very dangerous is out there.”

I leaned in too. “Before he got killed, Devon went to Mr. Elkaim and said he could prove Emil’s innocence, he said he—”

A waitress with a bright smile and a giant red orchid in her hair appeared at our table and we stiffened, quickly scanned menus and ordered—a Zombie and another Navy Grog, tropical truth serum. As soon as she was out of earshot, Cinnamon said, “We gotta switch seats, I need to watch the door.” We got up and maneuvered around each other. “My husband can’t know about any of this.”