"He thinks the accident was an attempt on his life," I said.

"Bullshit – I don't mean to be rude to you, lady, but let me fill you in. Bobby Callahan is a rich kid. He's spoiled, irresponsible, and self-indulgent. He fuckin' drank too much and he ran off the road, killing my son, who was incidentally his best friend. Anything else you've heard is horseshit."

"I'm not so sure of that," I said.

"Well, I am and I'm telling you straight. Check the police reports. Its all there. Have you seen 'em?"

"I got copies yesterday from Bobby's attorney," I said.

"No physical evidence, right? You got Bobby's claim someone ran him off the road, but you got nothing to substantiate a word he says, which in my mind makes his story pure crap."

"The police seem to believe him."

"You think they can't be bought off? You think the cops can't be persuaded by a few bucks?"

"Not in this town," I said. This man had really put me on the defensive and I didn't like the way I was handling myself.

"Says who?"

"Mr. Bergen, I know a lot of the local police. I've worked with them –" It sounded lame, but I was sincere.

He interrupted again, saying, Nuts! He made a dismissive gesture, turning his head with disgust. "I got no time for this. Maybe my wife'll talk to you."

"I'd rather talk to you," I said. He seemed surprised by that, as though no one ever preferred to talk to him.

"Forget it. Ricky's dead. It's all over with."

"Suppose it's not? What if Bobby's really telling the truth and it wasn't his fault?"

"What's it to me in any event? I don't give a good god-damn about him."

I nearly replied, but I shut my mouth instead, trusting some other instinct. I didn't want to get caught up in endless petty arguments that would only serve to keep this man inflamed. His agitation was profound, but I suspected that there was an ebb and flow to it. "May I have ten minutes of your time?"

He thought about it for a moment and then agreed with an air of annoyance. "Christ, come on in. I'm havin' my lunch. Reva's gone anyway."

He walked away from the door, leaving it up to me to close it after us and follow him through the house, which was drably carpeted and smelled as if it had been closed up. Window shades were drawn against the afternoon sun and the light in the house had an amber cast. I received a brief impression of overscaled furniture: two matching recliners covered in green plastic, and an eight-foot sectional sofa with an afghan on one end, occupied by a big black dog.

The kitchen was done in thirty-year-old linoleum with cabinets painted an intense shade of pink. The appliances made the room look like an illustration from an old issue of Ladies' Home Journal. There was a small built-in breakfast nook with newspapers piled up on one bench, and a narrow wooden table with a permanent centerpiece composed of sugar bowl, paper-napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers shaped like ducks, a mustard jar, ketchup bottle, and a bottle of A-l Sauce. I could see his sandwich preparations laid out too: an assortment of processed cheese slices and a lunchmeat laced with olives and ominous chunks of animal snout.