A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

me,” I said as he packed it in his mouth. He squinted in my direction, one cheek plumped up like a chipmunk. “Do you know Johnnie Santoro?”
    His eyebrows shot up, but he kept chewing.
    “I know he used to work down here.”
    He spat out a clump of black goop, which landed a few inches from my left sneaker. “Haven’t seen him in over a year. Don’t expect to.”
    I stood my ground. “But you knew him, right?”
    He looked me up and down. “You a cop?”
    “No.”
    “Lawyer?”
    “No.”
    “From the union?”
    “No.”
    “Then I ain’t got nuttin’ to say.”
    He gave me his back and walked away. A few gulls swooped down in parallel arcs above his head, their bellies tinged with the morning sun. I considered groveling, beseeching him with the fact that my livelihood was at stake unless I could clear my name, but after glancing at the unemployed longshoremen still gathered by the warehouse, I reconsidered. I pulled the brim of my cap farther down and started back to the car. As I skirted a second warehouse with peeling paint on its sides, a flicker of movement caught my attention.
    “Got a match?” A burly man with white hair, a bulbous red-veined nose, and skin the color of a dried apple drew a cigarette from behind his ear. The scent of booze clung to him, and there was a suspicious bulge in his pocket. I dug around in my purse and pulled out a frayed matchbook from the Italian Gardens, my favorite neighborhood restaurant.
    He lit the cigarette with pudgy fingers and took in a deep drag. Then he blew it out so contentedly I was tempted to bum one, even though I haven’t smoked in fifteen years. He grinned at me as if he knew what I was thinking, and slipped the matches into his pocket. “You’re that dame I saw on TV.” He studied me. “You stuck up for Johnnie. That took guts.”
    He could keep the matches. He knew Santoro. I tried to suppress my excitement. “It didn’t seem to do much good.”
    “You never know.” He brought the cigarette back up to his lips. “Why you come all the way down here? You ain’t had enough?”
    “I—I have some questions about him.”
    “Yeah.” He spread his arms. “But how you know to come down here?”
    “Oh.” I’d misunderstood his question. “I called the union and asked where my best chance was to find some longshoremen. They said Ceres was the only place hiring today.”
    He nodded, then motioned for me to follow him to the edge of the dock. A barge was tied up a few yards away, its contents hidden under several tarps. Water lapped against the side of the barge. Across the inlet a freighter had tied up, and I heard shouts and saw men bustling to off-load materials. The smell of rotting fish was strong.
    He flicked his ash into the water and took another drag, his belly ballooning in and out. “I’m Sweeney. What is it you wanna know?”
    This was the best offer I’d had in weeks. “I’m not sure how to begin, but, well—tell me how you knew Santoro.”
    Sweeney inhaled. The tip of his cigarette glowed orange. “His daddy and me were buddies.”
    “Santoro’s father is a longshoreman?”
    “Was. He’s passed on now. Died of cancer.”
    So did my mother. “Did he—Johnnie—come from a large family?”
    He took another drag. “Not so big. Four kids, I think. Three girls and Johnnie.”
    “Do they live around here?”
    “Not far.” He flicked his cigarette off the dock. It landed in the water with a tiny hiss. “What is it you want, lady?”
    I sucked in a breath. “Mr. Sweeney, I don’t think Johnnie Santoro killed his girlfriend. But the jury didn’t believe me, and unless I can prove it, I may not ever work again. I’m trying to find any information, any evidence, anything that would help prove he didn’t do it. I figured I’d start by coming down here.”
    He stared at me, sizing me up for another long moment. Then, “In that case, I dunno if I’m gonna be much help.”
    “Why?”
    “I—well, let’s just say I