Ketcham removed the overcoat and placed it over his head as directed.
Paulo indicated the two-inch-wide white surgical—or perhaps “mortician’s and embalmer’s”—white gauze Ketcham had removed and which was now lying on the concrete floor, and indicated to his brother that it should be reused to make sure the overcoat over Ketcham’s head did not become dislodged.
Pietro did as his brother ordered.
“Just stand there, motherfucker,” Paulo ordered.
He then left the room, walked down the corridor, and opened the door to another of the NIKE storage rooms. He flashed his floodlight around it, saw nothing that bothered him, and then returned to the room where Ketcham stood naked with an overcoat over his head.
He went to Ketcham, put his hand on his arm, indicated with his finger that his brother take the other arm, then started to lead Ketcham out of the room.
“You said we could talk,” Ketcham said plaintively.
“I also told you to shut your fucking mouth,” Paulo replied.
They led Ketcham into the center of the other room and turned him around. Ketcham’s situation was almost identical to what it had been in the first room, except in this room there was no odor of feces and urine.
Paulo wordlessly indicated to his brother that he was going after Mr. Savarese, handed his crowbar to his brother, and left the room.
He returned in two minutes, politely ushering Mr. Savarese into the room ahead of him. Mr. Savarese stood perhaps six feet from Ketcham, his delicate, fragile-looking hands folded together in front of him. He nodded his permission to Paulo to commence the conversation.
Paulo reclaimed his crowbar from his brother and walked across to Ketcham. He extended the crowbar to Ketcham’s groin, gently touching both his penis and his scrotum with it.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Ketcham said.
“Okay. Now we’ll talk,” Paulo said. “Tell me about drugs.”
“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.”