Knocking on the door is my preference over the doorbell, and after three knocks the door opens and a guy with no shirt and sweatpants squints at us.
"Sup?" he says.
Most of these guys aren't too nervous when they see us at the door because we don't look like law enforcement. When three guys show up covered in tats, wearing leather vests and dark sunglasses—two with long hair and one with a half-shaved, tattooed head—they usually think we're here to buy drugs or get in on their action.
"Can we come inside?" I ask.
He swings the door open.
"Okay, bro. You lookin' for something special?"
I've already noticed the white lines on the coffee table, the pill bottles, and the drug paraphernalia littering the house. A fawn pit bull is sitting beside the ratty mustard-yellow couch, watching our
