The diner was very quiet. Corey was sitting one stool down from Leo, arms folded, not looking at anyone. His revolver was on the floor. His jaw was still clenched.
But the bravado was fully gone now and what was underneath it was something that most people never let you see, the raw, uninsulated grief of a person who has been failing for so long that failure has started to feel like identity. He's got a kid, Corey said suddenly. Not to anyone in particular, not loudly. Just said it.
Eight months old, her name is Rosie. Leo's never even He stopped. His throat worked. He's never even held her because every time he tries to get stable enough to go to Stockton, Toad finds another reason to take something.
Mike looked at Corey for a long moment. Then he looked at Bobby. Bobby turned his phone face up and started typing. "What's he doing?" Leo asked.
His voice was careful. "Checking something." Mike said. "Don't worry about it." He picked up his coffee cup, found it empty, and set it back down. Without a word, Brenda refilled it from the pot behind the counter.
Her hands had mostly stopped shaking. She did it automatically, the muscle memory of eleven years on the night shift overriding everything else. And Mike nodded at her with something that was not quite a smile, but carried the same weight as one. "Hector Velasquez." Bobby said without looking up from his phone.
"44, originally out of Palmdale. Runs a collection and loan operation out of a scrapyard on Highway 58. He uses the yard as a front. The cars he repossesses as leverage.
And three guys named Torres, Mick, and a guy everybody calls Chucky as his enforcement arm." He paused. "He's been on the radar for about two years. Not our radar, specifically, but radar." "What kind of radar?" Leo said. Bobby looked up at him.