“Pleased to meet you, Albert.” Frommer extended a hand and Albert shook it. The man had a firm grip. Albert was betting his own hand felt soft in Ron’s callused one. “So again, what can I do for you?”

“I’m, uh, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Shoot.”

“You know . . . well, you’ve met my son.”

Ron nodded. “Okay. What’s your son’s name?”

“Brian.” Albert watched the man’s face.

“Brian?” Ron said. “Brian who?”

“Brian Gaffney.”

Ron’s smile began to fade. “You say Brian Gaffney is your son?”

Albert nodded nervously. “I believe you met him yesterday.”

Ron put the hat back on his head. “Mister, you should turn your car around and go.”

“You . . . you hurt him pretty bad. He’s back in the hospital.”

“Like I said, you should go.”

Albert was tempted to take a step back, but he held his ground. “I know . . . I mean, I can sort of understand why you did that. Finding out your wife, finding out that she had been seeing my son, I can see why a man might lose his temper over something like that.”

Ron Frommer moved his tongue around in his mouth, poking out his left cheek, then his right.

“I’m not saying that was the right thing to do. I think you should be charged for that, I do, but all I’m saying is I understand. But that’s not what I want to ask you about.”

“Really. And what would you like to ask me about?”

“I want to know about the other thing you did to him. I want to know why you did that.”

This was how Albert had practiced saying it, in his head, as he lay in bed. Act like he already knew Frommer had done it.

See if that shook him up.

He searched the man’s face, looking for any clue.

Ron Frommer said, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Albert swallowed. “I think you know.”

Frommer studied him for another three seconds, then grinned. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Yes?” Albert said hopefully.

“I know that only a pussy sends his daddy to settle scores.”

Albert blinked. “That’s . . . that’s not the issue at all. My son is not . . . he’s not that. He’s a good boy.”

“A boy? A good boy?” Ron chuckled. “What is he, twelve years old?”

“Don’t say that. That’s uncalled for.”

“So little Brian sends his daddy to have a word with me. I mean, if that doesn’t prove he’s a pussy, what would? Why didn’t his mommy come too? Did she stay home to read him a story?”

“I’m going to tell the police about you,” Albert said, his voice starting to shake.