'What drugs?' Ketcham responded, sounding genuinely confused.
Cassandro's crowbar touched Ketcham's scrotum and penis again, somewhat less gently.
'Tell me what you want to know, and I'll tell you,' Ketcham said, sounding desperately determined to be agreeable.
'You know fucking well what I want to know,' Paulo said. 'I want to hear it from you.'
There was a long pause.
'I swear to God,' Ketcham finally said, 'that I had nothing to do with the cops being there.'
'Bullshit,' Cassandro replied.
'I swear to God,' Ketcham repeated. 'They must have followed, been following, Williams.'
'Bullshit,' Paulo repeated.
Mr. Savarese held up his hand to signal the conversation should be interrupted. Paulo went to Mr. Savarese, who, very softly, asked, 'Williams?'
'I think a dinge drug dealer. I'll make sure,' Paulo whispered in Mr. Savarese's ear.
'I had no reason to go to the cops,' Ketcham said.
'But you would turn in a drug dealer like Amos Williams to save your miserable ass, wouldn't you?' Paulo asked reasonably.
'I didn't turn him in. I swear to God, I didn't. We had a long-standing business relationship.'
'So you tell me what happened, then.'
'I don't know. All of a sudden, there's cops all over the motel.'
'Why do you think that was?'
'I swear to God, I don't know. Except they must have been following Williams.'
'What was the name of this motel?'
'You don't know?' Ketcham blurted.
Paulo picked up Ketcham's scrotum with his crowbar.
'I ask, you talk,' he said.
'The Howard Johnson on Roosevelt Boulevard,' Ketcham said quickly.
'Maybe your girlfriend turned you both in, is that what you're saying?'
'No. Christ no! She didn't even know what was going on.'
'She was there with you, wasn't she?'
'She didn't even go in the motel. She waited outside in the car.'
'You expect me to believe your lady didn't even know what the fuck you were doing?'
'She didn't,' Ketcham said firmly.
'Right. Like she don't use shit herself, right?'
'She doesn't. I mean, every once in a while, a couple of lines, but she's not addicted.'
'Bullshit!'
'She doesn't. She's a nice girl, from a good family.'
'Who does a couple of lines every once in a while, right, and goes with you to meet with this drug dealer? Bullshit.'
'It's the truth, so help me God!'
'Maybe we're talking about two different people,' Paulo said. 'What's this lady's name?'
'Cynthia Longwood,' Ketcham said.
Paulo turned to look at Mr. Savarese, who was sadly shaking his head from side to side.
'If she was waiting outside in the car, and didn't set you and the dealer up with the cops, then what's she so upset about?'
'Why do you think?' Ketcham blurted.
This earned him a short but painful jab in the scrotum, which caused him first to double over in agony, then fall backward into a sitting position on the floor. Paulo then kicked Ketcham in the head.
'Answer the fucking question, motherfucker!'
'What the hell was I supposed to do?' Ketcham said. 'The cop had just ripped me off of twenty thousand dollars, and I was handcuffed to the toilet. You think I liked what the cop did to her?'
'What cop? Did he have a name?'
'I don't know what his name is,' Ketcham replied. 'He was an undercover narc. Probably from that special squad of narcs.'
'And what did he do to your lady that made her so upset?'
'He made her blow him,' Ketcham said.
Cassandro looked at Mr. Savarese. His face was expressionless, but tears ran down both cheeks. When he saw Paulo looking at him, he gestured with his hand for him to continue.
'He made her what?' Cassandro asked.
'First he made her take off her clothes, and then he made her blow him.'
'What did this cop look like?' Paulo asked.
'I don't know,' Ketcham began, and then, quickly, to ward off another kick to the head or jab at his scrotum, went on. 'White guy. Thirty years old. Average size-'
'What's his name, motherfucker?'
'I told you, I don't know. I never saw him before.' Paulo Cassandro, sensing movement, turned to look at Mr. Savarese. Mr. Savarese was walking out of the room.
Cassandro went after him. Mr. Savarese stopped walking halfway down the corridor, took the white Irish linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and dabbed at his eyes and cheeks with it.
'What do you want me to do with this bag of shit, Mr. S.?'
'Nothing,' Mr. Savarese replied.
'Nothing?' Cassandro parroted incredulously.
'Get Pietro. Make sure we will leave nothing behind that belongs to us, and then close the door.'
'Whatever you say, Mr. S.,' Paulo said.
Mr. Savarese nodded, then walked down the corridor toward the door and the Ford flat-tire truck outside.
They were almost back at Classic Livery, Inc., before Paulo finally understood what Mr. S. had in mind for Ketcham.
Nothing didn't mean nothing. Nothing meant that the miserable fucking cocksucker who had dishonored Mr. S.'s granddaughter would have a long fucking time in the fucking dark to think over what he had done before he died. And there wasn't even anything in that fucking room he could use to kill himself, unless maybe he could bang his fucking head against the fucking wall until his brains came out.
That's really better than what I was going to do to the bastard.
Paulo Cassandro had taken the crowbar with him, thinking it would be the thing to use to break Ketcham's fingers and arms and kneecaps and legs before he put an ice pick in his ear.
He considered Mr. Savarese's decision on how to properly deal with Ketcham one more proof of Mr. Savarese's profound wisdom.
SIXTEEN
After a long time in the bathroom-much of it looking at her reflection in the mirror, as if there was going to be some kind of answer there-Susan finally came out, wrapped in a hotel-furnished terry-cloth robe.
Matt was propped up against the headboard of the bed, naked except for a corner of the sheet over his groin, the telephone to his ear.
Matt said 'Thank you' into the telephone and hung it up and looked at her.
'Who were you talking to?' Susan asked.
'Room service. You were in there so long, I got hungry. I told them to send up oysters and a bottle of champagne. '
