“You’ll answer my questions or I’ll have my friend come in here and rip your balls out of your sack so he can stuff them down your throat,” I tell him. “We understand each other?”
Bregman nods, breathing hard. Good. Progress.
“You’re a mechanic at Sonoma Speedway, yes?”
“Yes! Yes.”
“You altered Enzo Bellanti’s car while he was there for one of Marco’s races, yes?”
Bregman hesitates. I motion to Armani, who picks up the pliers again.
“Yes! Goddammit, yes! Please don’t hurt me again,” Bregman says, his voice jagged.
I wave Armani away, and he drops the pliers on a bench with a sigh, as if he’s disappointed he can’t use them.
Taking our prisoner’s chin in my hand, I force him to look up at me with his good eye. “I want the whole story. All of it. Now.”
“Okay, okay, anything you want,” he says, trying to steady his breathing. “There was a guy. He showed up at the garage one day with twenty grand in a paper bag. Said he’d give me eighty more if I made a few changes to Enzo’s car so he’d have an accident.”
“So he’d have an accident?” Armani repeats, his voice icy. “Or so he’d die?”
Bregman’s shaking his head. “No. The guy never said a fatal accident, just enough to shake Enzo up a little.”
“Liar,” I say, grabbing the pliers myself and hitting him upside the head with them even as he screams and begs to be left alone.
“It’s the fucking truth!” Bregman wails. “I swear. What I did to that car, it shouldn’t’ve even made it to the freeway. It was supposed to break down before he even hit thirty-five miles an hour, thirty-five max, I swear. I never thought he’d fucking die, swear to fucking God.”
“Shut up. You’re babbling,” I tell him, my voice full of contempt.
Armani comes up beside me and crosses his arms. “Who hired you, Bregman?”
“I don’t know.”
Armani’s arm shoots out, lightning quick, and he backhands Bregman across the face.
“Who. Fucking. Hired you.”
But Bregman’s adamant. “Jesus Christ, I don’t know him! I don’t know. Never got his name and I never saw him again.”
“How’d you get the other eighty k then?” Armani pushes.
Bregman shakes his head again. “I didn’t. He never paid me the rest of the money, but I left it alone. I was too scared to try finding him.”
“Bullshit.” It’s my turn now. I grab Bregman by the hair and wrench his head back hard. “Gimme the fucking name.”
“I swear, I don’t have a name!”
“You killed a man without knowing how you’d get paid for it?” Armani scoffs. “You really that fucking stupid?”
“He was gonna kill me if I didn’t do it—I didn’t have a choice!” Bregman whimpers pathetically.
“How was he supposed to get into contact with you?” I prod. “There had to be a way.”
He hesitates, and I let go of his hair and stride toward the hall.
“Let me know when you run out of nails to pull,” I call over my shoulder to Armani. “I’m fucking done with this lying sack of shit.”
“No!” Bregman shouts. “Wait, please, wait!”
