“That’s okay. The dog’s been deputized,” he said with a straight face.
He walked around the flustered salesclerk. Parker, who was wagging his tail, let out one of his happy pig grunts. The two thick-necked types guarding the dressing room area weren’t as impressed by the badge. They stood blocking Morris’s way, and they weren’t about to budge. Given their sizes and apparent low centers of gravity, it would’ve taken a hydraulic jack to move either of those human boulders.
“I just want to talk to your boss for five minutes,” Morris said.
“Mr. Penza’s busy. Beat it.”
Parker let out an impatient grunt. The hired muscle glared at the bull terrier to show that he wasn’t impressed by him either.
“How about you give him my name and see if he’s willing to talk to me?”
The hired muscle refused to take Morris’s business card and demanded a photo ID. Reluctantly Morris handed over his driver’s license, and the muscle disappeared into the dressing room area. The other thick-necked goon took his place. It didn’t take long for his partner to return and signal with a tilt of his head that it was okay for Morris to pass. The goon stepped aside, and Morris passed him and collected his license from the other hired muscle. This one warned Morris that he might want to leave Parker with him.
“Mr. Penza doesn’t like dogs,” he said.
“I’ll keep him with me. Besides, how could anyone not like this little guy?”
The man’s eyes glazed over. “Suit yourself,” he said.
Morris smiled thinly at what was most likely an unintentional choice of words to use in a men’s clothing store. As Parker trotted past them, he let out a grunt to show he didn’t much care for the pun, intentional or not.
Big Joe Penza earned his nickname. Standing six feet four and weighing close to three hundred pounds, he appeared big rather than fat. A mountain of a man. Morris found him at the end of the hallway standing in front of a three-panel dressing mirror and scowling harshly at all of his reflections. The reason for his scowl might’ve been because the suit he had on was meant for someone thirty years younger than himself. He was trying to shed years off his age, and not just by buying hip new clothing. While no tattoos or piercings yet, he had the type of tan a man only got from religiously using a tanning booth. Hair plugs filled in the large bald spot Morris had noticed from a photograph taken of Penza years earlier, and what was now a full head of hair had been dyed yellow. The hair, dye job, and tan didn’t change the fact that he had the heavily lined face of a sixty-year-old man showing all of its scars.
“Stylish,” Morris said.
Penza turned his scowl toward Morris. “Is that supposed to be funny?” he demanded.
“Not at all.”
Penza eyed him carefully, then glanced downward at Parker before giving Morris another critical look. “Because if I thought you were cracking wise I’d have my boys toss you out of here on your ass. And your mutt also. What do you want?”
Morris didn’t bother to correct him about Parker being a purebred bull terrier. He dug the two police sketches out of his briefcase and handed the 1984 drawing over to Penza. Penza gave it a cursory look before handing it back.
“Why should that mean anything to me?”
“That was how a witness described the Nightmare Man back in 1984.”
Penza’s eyes dimmed as if he were remembering back to that year. “Again, so what?” he asked.
“My old man was the lead detective on that case. He believed the killer was a professional. If anyone back then knew all of the hired guns working in Los Angeles, it would be you.”
“Yeah? That’s news to me.”
Morris made a waving away gesture with his hand. “This is off the record,” he said. “I don’t care about what you did back then or what you’re doing now. All I care about is finding out who this guy was.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. 1984 was a long time ago. Why bother with this now?”
Morris handed him the other drawing. “This is what he could’ve looked like seventeen years later in 2001.”
Penza gave the police sketch a quick look. “Again, so?”
“Tomorrow will be seventeen years from when he last started killing again.”
“You think there’s a pattern?”
“I know there is.”
Penza’s expression weakened. He used one of his sausage-sized thumbs to absently rub his jaw. “I heard awful things were done to those young women,” he said.
“Worse than awful.”
While Penza continued to rub his jaw, his gaze shifted past Morris as if he were staring at something far off in the distance. Morris could almost see the calculations running through the mob boss’s head as he tried to make up his mind about something. He stopped rubbing his jaw, and when he looked back at Morris, his eyes were half-lidded and held as much warmth as ice.
“It’s too bad I can’t tell you who he is,” Penza said. “Those two drawing could be dozens of different guys I’ve seen over the years. Hell, I used to have a barber who looked like those drawings. And to think, three times a week I let him put a razor to my throat.”
Morris gave the crime boss a hard look. “This cute act doesn’t suit you. The guy I’m looking for was in the game, and you should damn well know who he was.”
“I got no idea what game you’re talking about.”
“Why’d you bother seeing me if you were only going to stonewall me?”
A smirk cracked Penza’s lips. “Because I know your reputation. I know you’re supposed to be like your dog over there. A bulldog when you take on work—”
“He’s a bull terrier.”
Penza glared at Morris. “Don’t be smart with me. I’m not a dog person. Okay? You’re making another assumption that just because I don’t know anything about hitmen don’t mean I can’t help you. Back in 1984 I heard something through the grapevine that might help you figure out who that guy is.”
“What do you want in return?”
“For you to bring someone to me. You ever hear of an actor named Benjamin Chandler? I want to talk to him, but the problem is I’m having a tough time finding him.”
Even if Morris hadn’t caught the glimmer of anger that flared in Penza’s eyes when he mentioned Chandler’s name, the way the muscles bunched around the mob boss’s mouth would’ve been a dead giveaway by itself.
“I’m not going to find a guy for you so you can rough him up or worse.”
“That’s not what this is. I only want to talk to him. Face-to-face.”
“What about?”
Another flare of anger, but it died out quickly. “It’s personal,” he said.
After drinks with Bogle, Morris had researched Penza on the internet and knew the mob boss had married a girl last year young enough to be his granddaughter. He’d found pictures of