A longer silence. “I didn’t see your father die.”
“No,” I say. “You saw Dante before it happened.”
His breath changes. “Who told you that?”
“You did.”
“I said nothing.”
“You said the wrong nothing.”
He curses softly. “I’m not giving a statement.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“You will.”
“Eventually.”
“No.”
“Eventually,” I repeat, “you may decide that being paid by me is better than being found by someone else.”
“I already got paid.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “By whom?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“No, it doesn’t. Money’s gone. I’m gone. I saw nothing.”
“You saw Dante.” Silence. “Roberto.”
“He was angry,” the man says, voice low. “That’s all.”
The room around me sharpens. The clerk behind the counter looks away, as if not hearing might protect him.
“Where?” I ask.
“At the pumps. He came in fast. Car scraped the curb. He paid cash first, then changed his mind, used the card, shouted at me when the receipt jammed. He was drunk, or close to it. There was blood on his cuff.”
My body goes very still. “Whose blood?”
“How would I know?”
“What time?”
“The receipt tells you.”
“You kept a copy?”
A laugh, humorless and afraid. “I keep copies of everything when men like that come through.”
“Do you still have it?”
“No.”
