natural break in conversation to bring the meeting around to its intended purpose.
“ My brother and I are taking another look into my dad’s case.”
Enzo ’s face stiffened, trying and failing to hide a look of disappointment. Surely, he didn’t think I’d called him to shoot the bull about the good old days when we’d only seen each other a dozen times in a couple years—several of those at my father’s trial.
“ Mind if I ask you a few questions?” I said.
At first hesitant, h is face soon softened and he reached out across the table, placing both hands palms down. If mine had been available, he may well have covered them. He was one of those earnest people. Luckily, one of my hands was busy adjusting my skirt and the other was crushing a Saltine crumb into dust. I’d opened the packet on the table and had munched on one before Enzo’s arrival.
“Of course,” he said. “Anything you need to know. But I wonder if you can’t get a copy of the case files. They’d be more accurate than anything I can remember.”
I’d read the transcript of Enzo’s interview before he arrived. His statement and testimony had been pretty straightforward: He’d arrived at work around four; Bobby Kettrick had pushed his car in for service; my dad had taken the car in and said that he’d look at it that evening. My brother had arrived around 5:30 p.m. and they’d all worked until 9:00 p.m. before celebrating the end of the week with a little drinking.
My dad used to say that people’s cars broke down at closing time, so he’d finally changed closing time. At least three nights a week, he’d stay late at the garage. Mom would be in bed by the time he got home. Safe, I used to think.
“Whatever you can remember will be fine, Enzo. From what I’ve learned, the truth doesn’t change much, only its embellishments.”
“Yeah? And where’d you learn a lesson like that?”
“I tend bar at Puccio’s. In New York. I know way more than I should about far less than I want to.”
He shook his head. “Might need a drink to wrap my head around that one.”
“As long as it’s not that battery acid you guys drank at the garage.”
The thoughtless comment caused a sharp pain to cross Enzo’s face. It sliced away the self-assured man, revealing a flash of the guilty boy lingering beneath, the one who’d served the battery acid cocktail.
“So Enzo,” I said, “what was your impression of my dad?”
“Mr. Artie? He wasn’t too bad. A little rough around the edges, told it like it was, but he gave me a chance when no one else would. Not to slight Lavitte, but it wasn’t the friendliest place for a family of struggling Hispanics, half illegal, the other half doing illegal things.”
“ Would you say you liked him?”
He gave some thought to it before answering , using the time to unwrap his silverware and place his napkin on his lap. “I did. We had our own way with each other. He gave me a hard time once in a while, but I deserved it. I was one heck of a lousy mechanic. More going on here,” he said while tapping his head, “than here.” He splayed his fingers and wiggled them.
“Do you think my dad committed murder?”
Enzo , who knew me as a sweet, soft-spoken girl, pulled back in his seat, feeling the pointed edge of my question.
“ Geez, Allison,” he said. “Just come right out with it.” He paused, assessing me more directly than most people would deem acceptable, likely wondering what had become of the polite girl who used to smile at him from beneath a shy crest of hair.
“ No,” he said. “No way. Your dad wasn’t a killer.”
“You must have thought about that night many times over the years.”
“More than you know,” he said, catching the waitress’ eye and raising his empty glass to request more tea. He then desperately tapped the glass to emphasize his sudden thirst lest the waitress think he was toasting her.
“ Then you must have a theory,” I said.
T he business
“ My brother and I are taking another look into my dad’s case.”
Enzo ’s face stiffened, trying and failing to hide a look of disappointment. Surely, he didn’t think I’d called him to shoot the bull about the good old days when we’d only seen each other a dozen times in a couple years—several of those at my father’s trial.
“ Mind if I ask you a few questions?” I said.
At first hesitant, h is face soon softened and he reached out across the table, placing both hands palms down. If mine had been available, he may well have covered them. He was one of those earnest people. Luckily, one of my hands was busy adjusting my skirt and the other was crushing a Saltine crumb into dust. I’d opened the packet on the table and had munched on one before Enzo’s arrival.
“Of course,” he said. “Anything you need to know. But I wonder if you can’t get a copy of the case files. They’d be more accurate than anything I can remember.”
I’d read the transcript of Enzo’s interview before he arrived. His statement and testimony had been pretty straightforward: He’d arrived at work around four; Bobby Kettrick had pushed his car in for service; my dad had taken the car in and said that he’d look at it that evening. My brother had arrived around 5:30 p.m. and they’d all worked until 9:00 p.m. before celebrating the end of the week with a little drinking.
My dad used to say that people’s cars broke down at closing time, so he’d finally changed closing time. At least three nights a week, he’d stay late at the garage. Mom would be in bed by the time he got home. Safe, I used to think.
“Whatever you can remember will be fine, Enzo. From what I’ve learned, the truth doesn’t change much, only its embellishments.”
“Yeah? And where’d you learn a lesson like that?”
“I tend bar at Puccio’s. In New York. I know way more than I should about far less than I want to.”
He shook his head. “Might need a drink to wrap my head around that one.”
“As long as it’s not that battery acid you guys drank at the garage.”
The thoughtless comment caused a sharp pain to cross Enzo’s face. It sliced away the self-assured man, revealing a flash of the guilty boy lingering beneath, the one who’d served the battery acid cocktail.
“So Enzo,” I said, “what was your impression of my dad?”
“Mr. Artie? He wasn’t too bad. A little rough around the edges, told it like it was, but he gave me a chance when no one else would. Not to slight Lavitte, but it wasn’t the friendliest place for a family of struggling Hispanics, half illegal, the other half doing illegal things.”
“ Would you say you liked him?”
He gave some thought to it before answering , using the time to unwrap his silverware and place his napkin on his lap. “I did. We had our own way with each other. He gave me a hard time once in a while, but I deserved it. I was one heck of a lousy mechanic. More going on here,” he said while tapping his head, “than here.” He splayed his fingers and wiggled them.
“Do you think my dad committed murder?”
Enzo , who knew me as a sweet, soft-spoken girl, pulled back in his seat, feeling the pointed edge of my question.
“ Geez, Allison,” he said. “Just come right out with it.” He paused, assessing me more directly than most people would deem acceptable, likely wondering what had become of the polite girl who used to smile at him from beneath a shy crest of hair.
“ No,” he said. “No way. Your dad wasn’t a killer.”
“You must have thought about that night many times over the years.”
“More than you know,” he said, catching the waitress’ eye and raising his empty glass to request more tea. He then desperately tapped the glass to emphasize his sudden thirst lest the waitress think he was toasting her.
“ Then you must have a theory,” I said.
T he business
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