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looked halfway presentable.
    â€œYou ready?”
    â€œYep,” I answered.
    The sedan’s front seat felt piping hot when I slid in and closed the door. A fire engine raced past us with bells clanging as Roscoe got in and muttered something about forest fires. I didn’t hear him and I didn’t feel like asking him to repeat it. I started the car, steered onto 200 South, and headed downtown. I had no desire to get to the bottom of what happened to Roscoe, but I felt I had no choice.
    â€œYou gonna tell me who did it?”
    He turned his head to me, swollen-eyed and fat-lipped. “Huh?”
    â€œYour face.”
    He looked forward. “Remember Pearl?”
    â€œNot the married woman.…”
    â€œDon’t start in on me.”
    â€œWas it her husband?”
    He opened a tobacco pouch and stuck a wad between his cheek and gum. When he tilted it my way, I shook my head. “You sure? It’s Red Man.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    He tucked it in his pocket. “I know what you’re thinking.”
    I didn’t answer him.
    â€œYou’re thinking: He oughta settle down. Find himself a wife. Have some kids. Like me. ”
    â€œActually, I was wondering how that lady’s husband bested you.”
    â€œWhat makes you think he bested me?”
    â€œI’m basing it on your appearance. Am I wrong?”
    â€œI tore him apart.” He burped and pounded his fist against his chest. “Prick had no idea what hit him.”
    Roscoe’s proclivity for fooling around with married women and his brutish fisticuffs—stories of the latter probably exaggerated for effect—left me cold, and I’m sure he noticed my troubled expression, or heard my sigh of frustration. Once upon a time, I used to harangue him about his reckless ways, but it only made him sore and more reluctant to confide in me. Over time, I grew less judgmental and more inclined to listen the way a good friend ought to. I held out hope that by letting Roscoe find the words to describe his more troubling behaviors, he’d see them more clearly and try to change his ways. He hadn’t rounded that corner yet, but the optimist in me refused to give up on him.
    I reached the congested intersection of 200 South and State, signaled, and turned right—north—in the direction of Public Safety. We were downtown, which meant I didn’t have much time left to be alone with Roscoe. Change the subject , I thought. “That girl in the picture, the one in your living room. Who is she?”
    â€œNona.”
    â€œOh yeah? Nice name. Nona what?”
    â€œNona your business.”
    â€œOh. It’s like that, huh?”
    â€œYeah, it’s like that.”
    â€œSorry. I figured she must be somebody important. If you keep her framed picture in your apartment.” I waited a beat. “She must mean something to you.”
    â€œArt?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHer name’s still Nona.”
    â€œOkay. Fine.” On the last block of our drive, I told Roscoe the thing I dreaded saying the most. “I can’t cover for you anymore.”
    â€œNot now, Art.…”
    â€œYes, now,” I said. “You need to realize that you’ve got a job, and a good one. That’s a luxury a lot of men in our day and age don’t have. You need to keep that job. Showing up on time in the morning is a good start.”
    I turned down the shaded alley to the side of Public Safety while Roscoe stewed next to me. Behind the building, I turned into a parking spot and killed the engine.
    Roscoe flung open his door and stepped onto the running board, then to pavement. “Listen, thanks for coming out to the Tampico to get me,” he said. “But I don’t need you looking after me, Art. The way I see it, if the higher-ups can my ass, they’ll be doing me a favor.”
    He slammed his door hard, startling me. As I watched him enter Public Safety, the