everybody wants to spill their guts to cops.”
“Not Scorza,” Ryan said. “We’ll give you people to interview. Just don’t go near Scorza.”
“Give me somebody, please. I want to do something. I keep thinking I screwed up here. I should have noticed something was
wrong with her. Maybe she’d still be alive today if I had something else on my mind besides getting laid.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ryan said, and wondered how many times he was going to say it in this case. “Something happened earlier
that night. Winters had made his mind up to have Gillian drug tested. Then he apparently changed it between six-thirty and
eleven. All we know now is that during that time, he made phone calls to Scorza and had dinner with Abigail Klass.”
“Abigail Klass the food writer? I can interview her.”
“Winters says he had a change of heart and decided not to give up on Gillian. You believe that, Danny?”
“I think he was scared shitless his rich wife would find out about his affair with Gillian.”
“Gillian’s sister, Faye, spoke to her after Winters left, and said she was very upset, talking crazy. If we believe Trey Winters,
she should have been happy.”
“You think Winters is lying?”
“All the years I’ve been a cop,” Ryan said, “I talked to a lot of liars. One thing they all do is rationalize. No matter how
you push, accuse, insult… they give you a rational explanation. Today I pushed Trey Winters and he never got mad at me. Liars
are never angry, Danny. Remember that.”
13
V ictor awoke to sirens, the music of the Bronx night. The apartment was dark, except for a sliver of light from under the bathroom
door. Victor assumed he’d left it on when he took the red pills, earlier. He was slightly foggy, but the rest had helped.
He pulled himself up to a sitting position, feeling the tug of his stomach muscles. A good tug, the pain less severe. The
retribution from Wednesday’s reckless performances was wearing off. He got to his feet as the bathroom door opened. Pinto
stood framed in the doorway.
“I’m not good enough for you,” Pinto said, his body a question mark in silhouette. “Not smart enough, or you don’t trust me.
Which is it?”
The envelope meant for Trey Winter was not on the table. It was in Pinto’s hand.
“You have no answers, my friend,” Pinto said, waving the note. “Before you always have answers.”
“That note is none of your business, Pinto.”
“It wasn’t my business when I took you from your busboy job and taught you to juggle. It wasn’t my business when I taught
you to work crowds.”
“Give me that,” Victor said.
“I should have let you waste yourself like your father.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You found a way to strike it big, and fuck Pinto. I understand that.”
“I thought it was too dangerous for you. A man your age.”
“Oh, too dangerous for me, but not too dangerous for you, taking your pills like little candies.”
“You never keep your mouth shut about anything, Pinto. What was I going to do?”
“You thought I would tell somebody? I had schemes in Russia make your scheme look like little potatoes. I didn’t even tell
myself things then, in case I talked in my sleep.”
Pinto threw the letter on the table.
“See,” Victor said. “You put your fingerprints on the letter. Sometimes you don’t think.”
“Blackmail needs two to work it right.”
“I’m not blackmailing anyone. It’s a simple business deal.”
“That is why you cut words out of the newspapers. Because of a business deal. You think I’m stupid, that insult is worst.”
Victor walked into the bathroom to wash his face. The water felt good. The smell of the soap invigorated him. Victor had inherited
his father’s looks, lady-killers, both of them. His mother always said that if his father prayed at all, he prayed to the
Virgin Mary, because he believed he had a way with all women. Victor saw in the
“Not Scorza,” Ryan said. “We’ll give you people to interview. Just don’t go near Scorza.”
“Give me somebody, please. I want to do something. I keep thinking I screwed up here. I should have noticed something was
wrong with her. Maybe she’d still be alive today if I had something else on my mind besides getting laid.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ryan said, and wondered how many times he was going to say it in this case. “Something happened earlier
that night. Winters had made his mind up to have Gillian drug tested. Then he apparently changed it between six-thirty and
eleven. All we know now is that during that time, he made phone calls to Scorza and had dinner with Abigail Klass.”
“Abigail Klass the food writer? I can interview her.”
“Winters says he had a change of heart and decided not to give up on Gillian. You believe that, Danny?”
“I think he was scared shitless his rich wife would find out about his affair with Gillian.”
“Gillian’s sister, Faye, spoke to her after Winters left, and said she was very upset, talking crazy. If we believe Trey Winters,
she should have been happy.”
“You think Winters is lying?”
“All the years I’ve been a cop,” Ryan said, “I talked to a lot of liars. One thing they all do is rationalize. No matter how
you push, accuse, insult… they give you a rational explanation. Today I pushed Trey Winters and he never got mad at me. Liars
are never angry, Danny. Remember that.”
13
V ictor awoke to sirens, the music of the Bronx night. The apartment was dark, except for a sliver of light from under the bathroom
door. Victor assumed he’d left it on when he took the red pills, earlier. He was slightly foggy, but the rest had helped.
He pulled himself up to a sitting position, feeling the tug of his stomach muscles. A good tug, the pain less severe. The
retribution from Wednesday’s reckless performances was wearing off. He got to his feet as the bathroom door opened. Pinto
stood framed in the doorway.
“I’m not good enough for you,” Pinto said, his body a question mark in silhouette. “Not smart enough, or you don’t trust me.
Which is it?”
The envelope meant for Trey Winter was not on the table. It was in Pinto’s hand.
“You have no answers, my friend,” Pinto said, waving the note. “Before you always have answers.”
“That note is none of your business, Pinto.”
“It wasn’t my business when I took you from your busboy job and taught you to juggle. It wasn’t my business when I taught
you to work crowds.”
“Give me that,” Victor said.
“I should have let you waste yourself like your father.”
“You don’t understand.”
“You found a way to strike it big, and fuck Pinto. I understand that.”
“I thought it was too dangerous for you. A man your age.”
“Oh, too dangerous for me, but not too dangerous for you, taking your pills like little candies.”
“You never keep your mouth shut about anything, Pinto. What was I going to do?”
“You thought I would tell somebody? I had schemes in Russia make your scheme look like little potatoes. I didn’t even tell
myself things then, in case I talked in my sleep.”
Pinto threw the letter on the table.
“See,” Victor said. “You put your fingerprints on the letter. Sometimes you don’t think.”
“Blackmail needs two to work it right.”
“I’m not blackmailing anyone. It’s a simple business deal.”
“That is why you cut words out of the newspapers. Because of a business deal. You think I’m stupid, that insult is worst.”
Victor walked into the bathroom to wash his face. The water felt good. The smell of the soap invigorated him. Victor had inherited
his father’s looks, lady-killers, both of them. His mother always said that if his father prayed at all, he prayed to the
Virgin Mary, because he believed he had a way with all women. Victor saw in the
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