“Who fired the first shot?”
“I don’t remember. It happened too fast.”
“How many people were shooting?”
“I didn’t know. A few.”
“Did you fire a gun?”
“No.”
“Did Corrado Moretti?”
“Uh, I can’t say. I told you, it all happened too fast.”
“Well, what did you do when the shooting started?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s right. Nothing.”
“And you didn’t see what happened?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Gunshots.”
“How many?”
“A lot. I didn’t count them.”
“Who was involved in the shooting?”
“I don’t know.”
“So it could’ve been Corrado?”
“It fucking could’ve been Jimmy Hoffa.”
“I’d rather you keep the sarcasm to a minimum. This is a serious situation.”
“I’m not being sarcastic. I told you I didn’t see. I don’t know who shot first, who shot who, who’s dead, and who’s still alive. All I know is what I did.”
“And what’s that?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do a goddamn thing.”
Round in circles they went, the same vague answers being given for the same questions. He saw nothing, he did nothing, and he couldn’t recall a thing.
It was the truth . . . partially.
He didn’t know what they expected from him. All he could recall were his father’s last moments, the brutal image haunting Carmine like someone had taken a blowtorch and burned it in his brain.
Gone . . . his father was gone.