Saul doesn’t know who started the fight, only that suddenly Joey has drawn himself up to his full height in unmistakable rage, and that one of the other men in the room has drawn a knife. It blinks and shines in the lamplight. You don’t have to do this, says Joey. As a warning. You’ve gotta be reasonable, then, says the other man. And then Joey says, Saul. And the situation comes into unmistakable focus for Saul, who understands he is to draw the iron pipe from his pant leg and tap it lightly on the ground. Almost casually. We can’t afford this, says the man. Whiskey swirls in Saul’s brain and he is consumed by the echo of the pipe against the floor, by the oceanic sway of his own eyes and body as he struggles to stay on his feet. It’s tough out there, agrees Joey. It’s why when we don’t get paid on time, we can’t take any shit. Joey looks at Saul. The man across from them takes the opportunity to lunge forward, knife outstretched, eyes rolling in fear.

And easily, simply, as though he had always known how the evening would go, Saul raises the iron pipe up above his head and brings it crashing down against the other man’s skull.

The man is knocked back against the wall, blood streaming from his nose and a gash across his cheek.

You brought this on yourself, says Joey. And then, let’s go.

And Saul walks out behind Joey into the night, and eases into the waiting car, and watches the old gas streetlights flicker as they drive back to Joey’s, and then to Paolo and Antonia’s, where Julia and Robbie are sleeping with slack faces and long, heavy limbs, and where Sofia has gone to spend the evening. He says good night to Antonia, picks up Julia and kisses her head. She snuggles back into sleep against his chest. He carries her home, three blocks that feel longer in the icy fall air. Sofia shuts the door to Julia’s bedroom after Saul eases her under her blankets, and they retreat into their own room.

As Saul feels himself drift away from the events of his evening, Sofia asks, “What were you doing tonight?”

Saul turns toward her. Sofia has propped herself up on one elbow and her hair hangs down over her chest toward her pillow. Her face glows in the lamplight. “Working,” he says. He is confused; Sofia doesn’t usually ask questions about his work, and he doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t want to answer.

Sofia is impatient. “I know,” she says. “But working, where? Who with? What were you doing?”