Copper light spilled across Party Alley. With the tip of his cigarette, Vespar indicated another building. You'd lost track of how many.

Copper light spilled across Party Alley. With the tip of his cigarette, Vespar indicated another building. You'd lost track of how many.

"Love hotel." He indicates a yellowed balcony. "That one was cinematic."

He looks to you, half a smile on his face.

Look toward the building.

"Double-murder, couple months ago. The man was a baby-faced boevik in the Azzurri mob."

"The woman was married -- not to him. Both shot, in bed." A puff of smoke. "He was alright."

Vespar was always telling stories like that, about the Azzurris.

For whose benefit, it was hard to say. Sometimes it just seemed he needed to get them out.

I wonder did he know, at some level...

... that it would be them who killed him.

"His gun was still holstered. Tangled up in his pants."

Certain deaths can't help but take on a metaphorical quality.

"Ah, well." He tosses his cigarette. "Let's fuckin' go."

I asked: "You knew the guy?"

"Little bit. He was a fast-riser among Azzurri. Had some funny stories, couldn't drink for shit." He pauses. "He would've made a great snitch."

I don't need to remember. (Dispel reverie.)

The memory fades, replaced by the clatter of the nearby streets.