Stone nodded.
The boy beckoned him to come.
Stone left five dollars on the table and followed the boy. They turned a corner and came to a Lincoln Continental of a fifties vintage, a giant, four-door land yacht of an automobile. Brandy Garcia sat at the wheel and beckoned him to the passenger side.
"Give the boy something," Garcia said.
Stone gave the boy five dollars and stuck the red baseball cap on his head.
The boy turned the cap backward, grinned, and disappeared into the street crowd.
Stone got into the car and waited for Garcia to drive off, but he simply sat there. "Well?"
"I want the rest of my money, first," Garcia said.
Stone took a precounted thousand dollars from a pocket and handed it over. "The rest when I'm sitting down with Cordova."
"Fair enough," Brandy said, and put the car into gear. "Pretty nice buggy, eh?"
"Nicely restored," Stone admitted. "I haven't seen one of these in years."
Garcia turned a corner and sped down the street, oblivious of the pedestrians diving out of his way. "I got three more beauties at my house," he said. "I got a Stingray Corvette, a '57 Chevy Bel-Air coupe with the big V-8, and a '52 Caddy convertible, yellow. All mint."
"Well," Stone said, "I guess the Lincoln is the closest thing we're going to get to inconspicuous."
Garcia laughed and turned another corner. "Everybody knows me in Tijuana," he said. "Why be inconspicuous?"
Soon they were leaving the busy part of town and driving down a dirt street. The houses were getting farther apart, and after a while there were very few houses. Garcia slowed and turned down a dirt road; a mile later, he turned into a driveway and drove a hundred yards to a little stucco house in a grove of trees, with an oversized garage to one side.
"Here we are," Garcia said, parking next to a beat-up Volkswagen and getting out of the car. "Cordova is already here; that's his car," he said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the VW Stone quickly memorized the license plate number before he followed Garcia into the house.
"How's Cordova's English?" Stone asked, as they walked through a tiled living room and out onto a patio.
"Ask him yourself," Garcia said, nodding toward a large man seated at a patio table next to a small swimming pool, hunched over a beer. "That's Felipe Cordova, and you owe me another three grand."
Stone handed him the money, then walked to the table and took a seat opposite the man, getting a look at his shoes on the way. He saw the swoosh logo. "Felipe Cordova?"
The man nodded.
Stone offered his hand. "My name is Barrington."
Cordova shook it limply, saying nothing.
"You have any problem with English, or you want Brandy to translate?"
Cordova looked at Garcia, who was stepping back into the house, and Stone took the opportunity to switch on the little recorder in his shirt pocket.
"English is okay," he said, but I got another problem-a thousand bucks."
Stone counted out five hundred and placed it on the table. "The rest when we're finished, and if you tell me the truth, there might be a bonus."
"What you want to know?" Cordova asked.
"You work for a gardening service in L.A.?"
"Yeah."
"You work sometimes for Charlene Joiner, in Malibu?"