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shoulder.
    The smirk disappeared from Nemo’s face. “Hurry up! Get in!”
    He stepped up into the truck and Nemo let the door fall with an abrupt bang.
    â€œSo, how the hell you been, Augie?” Nemo said as he sat down on a blue plastic milk crate on the floor. He was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and a teal-blue T-shirt underneath with some kind of printing on it.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have come here. What do you want?”
    Nemo pulled a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboros with his teeth. “What do you think I want?”
    As Nemo lit the cigarette, he laughed that hissing laugh of his, and Augustine was suddenly reminded of the trip they took to the farm in Sicily. Augustine forced himself to control his breathing. He looked around the inside of the truck. A wall sconce cast an incongruously warm glow over the interior. Through the opening between the cab and thebody, he could hear the black man sucking up the dregs of his drink. The floor was littered with paper bags and plastic containers as if someone had been living in here. He glanced over his shoulder. Against the wall behind him was a sloppily rolled rug, a very large rug. Blood rushed to Augustine’s head and throbbed in his ears. Oh, my God . . .
    â€œWe got some problems,” Nemo said.
    â€œYes. I’m aware of that.” Augustine coughed into his fist.
    Nemo pressed his lips together and shook his head. “So why ain’t you doin’ anything? See, I don’t think you realize how much is involved here. That’s why you been dickin’ around.”
    Augustine frowned. “How do you mean?”
    Nemo nodded toward the rug. “I’m sitting on a lot of product. A lot of product. I can’t unload it because everybody’s hot. They won’t touch the shit while they’re on trial. I can’t even talk to my barber. You know who I mean.”
    Salamandra, the Barber of Seville. Augustine nodded that he understood.
    â€œNothin’s happenin’ for us. It’s like fuckin’ gridlock, you know what I’m sayin’? I hang on to that rug too long, they may start thinkin’ I’m holding out on them. On top of that, if the other guy—you know, from the farm?—if he don’t get his do-re-mi, he’s gonna be pissed as shit. And we don’t wanna get him mad.”
    Zucchetti, the other guy, from the farm. Augustine shook his head no. Indeed he did not want to upset Zucchetti. He held the purse strings. He approved the payments.
    â€œNow, the way I see it, Augie, we got a coupla options here.” Nemo drew on his cigarette and blew smoke out the side of his mouth. “You can do what you promised to do in the first place. Make the mistrial happen so everybody can stop fucking around with this trial shit and we can all get back to work.”
    â€œA mistrial takes time. This is a big case. I can’t—”
    â€œWe don’t have no more time,” Nemo overrode him.“Vin’s a rat. He’s gonna do a Tweety Bird and start talking. That cannot happen. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
    â€œWell, what can I do about that? I can’t stop Giordano from talking.”
    Nemo shrugged. “Maybe you should work on it. Like maybe you should work on it real hard. You know what I mean?”
    â€œAre you suggesting that I have him . . .?” Augustine couldn’t even bring himself to say it.
    â€œYou promised the guy from the farm that you’d get a mistrial if this ever happened. I’m not gonna tell you how to do your business. You just do it any way you have to.”
    â€œBut that’s not my business. I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with”—he pointed to the rug—“that end of it. And I’m certainly not about to have Giordano—you know what I’m talking about.”
    Nemo leaned forward with his elbows on his knees as he stuck the cigarette