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“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.
