“Phil, listen to me.”

I pulled to the side of the road on a dark stretch by the Araban Coffee Building, smelled the roasted aroma trying to overide the oily stench of the docks off to my left.

He put his hands over his eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“Phil! Fucking look at me!”

He lowered his hands. “What?”

“It never happened.”

“What?”

“It never happened. You got it?” I was shouting, and Phil recoiled from me in the dark of the car, but I didn’t care. “You want to die, too? Do you? That’s what we’re talking about here, Phil.”

“Jesus. Me? Why?”

“Because you’re a witness.”

“I know, but—”

“But is not an option. This is very simple, Phil. You’re alive because Bubba would never kill anyone I care about. You’re alive because he’s convinced Pine that I’ll keep you in line. I’m alive because they know I won’t talk. And both of us, by the way, would go to jail for double homicide if we did, because we were there. But it’d never come to that, Phil, because if Pine has any reason to worry, he’ll kill you and he’ll kill me and he’ll probably kill Bubba, too.”

“But—”

“Stop with the fucking buts, Phil. I swear to God. You convince yourself that this never happened. It was all a bad dream. Kevin and Jack are on vacation somewhere. Because if you don’t get clear on that concept, you’ll talk.”

“I won’t.”

“You will. You’ll tell your wife or your girlfriend or someone in a bar, and then we’re all dead. And the person you told is dead, too. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be watched.”

“What?”

I nodded. “Face it and find a way to live with it. For quite a while, you’ll be watched.”

He swallowed hard and his eyes bulged, and I thought he might get sick again.

Instead he jerked his head around and stared out the window and curled into himself on the seat.

“How do you do this?” he whispered. “Day in and day out?”

I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes and listened to the German engine rumble.

“How do you live with yourself, Patrick?”

I slid the shift into first and didn’t speak again as we drove through Southie and down into the neighborhood.

I left the Porsche in front of my house and headed for the Crown Victoria, parked a few cars back, because a ’63 Porsche is just about the last thing you want to be driving in my neighborhood if you want to remain anonymous.

Phil stood by the passenger door, and I shook my head.

“What?” he said.

“You’re staying behind, Phil. I’m alone on this one.”

He shook his head. “No. I was married to her, Patrick, and this prick shot her.”

“Want him to shoot you, too, Phil?”

He shrugged. “You think I’m not up to this?”

I nodded. “I think you’re not up to this, Phil.”

“Why? Because of the bowling alley? Kevin—he was someone we grew up with. A friend once. So okay, I didn’t handle him getting shot real well. But Gerry?” He held his gun up on the car top, worked the slide, and jacked a round into the chamber. “Gerry’s dogshit. Gerry dies.”