suggested, or had he undertaken his own freelance investigation late in life and come up with new leads?
Either way, Schwinn hadn't been as serene as his second wife believed. Or as faithful: He'd found a confidante to mail the murder book.
As I'd told Milo, Ojai was a small town and it was doubtful Schwinn could've pulled off a regular assignation there without Marge finding out. But before he'd married Marge, he'd lived in Oxnard in a fleabag motel. Marge hadn't mentioned the name, but she had given us the site of Schwinn's minimum-wage job, and said Schwinn hadn't owned a car. Taking out the trash at Randall's Western Wear. Somewhere within walking distance.
The place was still in business, on Oxnard Boulevard.
I'd taken the scenic route because it was the quickest way and I had no stomach for the freeway: Sunset to PCH, then north on the coast highway past the L.A.-Ventura line and Deer Creek Road and the campgrounds of Sycamore Creek- fifteen miles of state land that kissed the ocean and separated the last private beach in Malibu from Oxnard. The water was sapphire blue under a chamber-of-commerce sky, and the bodies that graced the sand were brown and perfect.
At Las Posas Road, I avoided the eastern fork that swoops into glorious, green tables of farmland and up to the foothills of Camarillo and continued on Route 1.
Nature's beauty gave way, soon enough, to dinge and depression and seventy-five minutes after leaving the house I was enjoying the sights of central Oxnard.
Oxnard's a funny place. The town's beach sports a marina and luxury hotels and fishing excursions and tour boats to the Channel Islands. But the core is built around agriculture and the migrant workers whose dreadful lives put food on the nation's tables. The crime rate's high, and the air stinks of manure and pesticide. Once you get past the marina turnoff, Oxnard Boulevard is a low-rent artery lined with trailer parks, auto-parts yards, thrift shops, taco bars, taverns blaring Mexican music, and more Spanish than English on the signage.
Randall's Western Wear was a red barn in the center of the strip, stuck between Bernardo's Batteries and a windowless bar called El Guapo. Plenty of parking in back; only two pickups and an old Chrysler 300 in the lot.
Inside was the smell of leather and sawdust and sweat, ceiling-high racks of denim and flannel, Stetsons stacked like waffles, cowboy boots and belts on sale, one corner devoted to sacks of feed, a few saddles and bridles off in another. Travis Tritt's mellow baritone eased through scratchy speakers, trying to convince some woman of his good intentions.
Slow day in the ranch-duds biz. No customers, just two salesmen on duty, both white men in their thirties. One wore gray sweats, the other jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Both smoked behind the counter, showing no interest in my arrival.
I browsed, found a tooled cowhide belt that I liked, brought it to the counter and paid. Harley-D rang me up, offering no eye contact or conversation. As he handed back my credit card, I let my wallet open and showed him my LAPD consultant badge. It's a clip-on deal with the department's badge as a logo, not good for much and if you look closely it tells you that I'm no cop. But few people get past the insignia, and Harley was no exception.
'Police?' he said, as I closed the wallet. He wore a bad haircut like his own badge of honor, had a handlebar mustache that drooped to his chin, and a clogged-sinus voice. Stringy arms and stringy hair, a scatter of faded tattoos.
I said, 'Thought maybe you could help me with something.'
'With what?'
Sweats looked up. He was a few years younger than Harley, with a blond-gray crew cut, a square shelf of a chin finishing a florid face. Stocky build, quiet eyes. My guess was ex-military.
'A few questions about a guy who worked here a while back. Pierce Schwinn.'
'Him?' said Harley. 'He hasn't been here for what- coupla years?' He looked back at Sweats.
'Coupla,' Sweats agreed.
Harley looked at the belt. 'What, you bought that to get friendly or something?'
'I bought it because it's a nice belt,' I said. 'But I have no problem with being friendly. What do you remember about Schwinn?'
Harley frowned. 'When he worked here he was a bum. What's up with him now?'
'Have you seen him since he stopped working here?'
'Maybe once,' he said. 'Or maybe not. If he did come in, it was with his wife- that right?' Another consultation with Sweats.
'Probably.'
'Why?' said Harley. 'What he do?'
'Nothing. Just a routine investigation.' Even as I said it, I felt ridiculous, not to mention criminal. But if Milo could risk violations of the public order, so could I. 'So the last time Mr. Schwinn worked here was a couple of years ago?'
'That's right.' Harley's smile was derisive. 'If you wanna call it work.'
'It wasn't?'
'Man,' he said, leaning on the counter, 'let me tell you: It was a gift. From our mom to him. She owns the place. He used to live down the block, at the Happy Night. Mom felt sorry for him, let him clean up for spare change.'
'The Happy Night Motel?' I said.
'Right down the block.'
'So it was a sympathy thing,' I said. 'From your mother.'
'She's got a soft heart,' said Harley. 'Ain't that so, Roger?'
Sweats nodded and smoked and turned up the volume on Travis Tritt. The singer's voice was plaintive and rich; I'd have been convinced.
'Schwinn have any friends?' I said.
'Nope.'
'What about Marge- the woman who married him.'
'She comes in for feed when she runs out on her bulk order,' said Harley. 'Yeah, she married him, but that makes her his wife, not his friend.'
I said, 'Marge met him here.'
'Guess so.' Harley's brows knitted. 'Haven't seen her either, for a while.'
Roger said, 'She's probably ordering off the Internet, like everyone. We gotta get with that.'
'Yeah,' said Harley, listlessly. 'So, c'mon tell me, man, why're you asking about him? Someone off him or something?'
'No,' I said. 'He's dead, all right. Fell off a horse a few months ago.'
'That so. Well, she never mentioned it. Marge didn't.'
'When's the last time you saw her?'
Harley looked back at Roger. 'When's the last time I saw her?'
Roger shrugged. 'Maybe four, five months ago.'
'Mostly everyone orders bulk from suppliers,' said Harley. 'And the Internet. We do gotta get hooked up.'
'So Marge has been in since Schwinn died, but she never mentioned his death.'
'Probably- I couldn't swear to it, man. Listen, don't pin me down on any a this.'
Roger gave another sweat-suited shrug. 'Marge don't talk much, period.'
Travis Tritt bowed out and Pam Tillis weighed in about 'The Queen of Denial.'
Harley said, 'Is this about drugs, or something?'
'Why do you say that?'
Harley fidgeted. His brother said, 'What Vance means is that the Happy Night- everyone knows about it. People go in and out. You wanna do us a favor? Get it moved outta here. This block used to be a nice place.'
I kept my car in the Randall's lot and walked the block to the motel. The place was a twelve-unit gray stucco C built around a central courtyard and open to the street. The yard was tiled with crumbling bricks, didn't look as if it had been designed for parking, but four dirty compact cars and an equally grubby truck with a camper shell occupied the space. The office was off to the right- a cubicle that smelled of gym sweat manned by a young skin-headed Hispanic man wearing an aqua blue cowboy shirt with bloodred piping. Spangling on the yokes, too, but oily splotches in the armpits and ketchup-colored freckles across the front mitigated the garment's charm. Resting on
