Not a question. A statement.

Marisol came up behind him, and punched him in the back.

“He don’t want to see you. Get out of here.”

She punched him again.

“You listenin’ to me, motherfucker?”

Art lifted his hand and spoke through the split.

“Marisol. Not like that.”

Pike ignored her, staring at Art’s good eye.

“Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“Won’t happen, brother. No hospital.”

Pike moved closer, Art’s good eye following him.

“Because of me?”

Behind him, Marisol answered again.

“What you think? They blamed him for whatever shit you did at that body shop. They brought it back on Art. He never should’ve helped you.”

Pike lifted Art’s shirt. His chest and abdomen were blotchy with purple and green bruises from haymakers and kicks. They had beaten Art so hard the kicks and punches flowed out of Art into Pike until Art pulled his shirt back to cover the marks.

“This is what I teach these kids. You see how violence spreads? You let me down, man.”

“Are your ribs broken?”

“I’m fine.”

“Let me take you to a doctor.”

“It’s over. Forget it.”

Pike glanced at Marisol.

“You should have called me.”

“I was, but he wouldn’t let me, not you, the police, nobody.”

Art’s hand came up again.

“It was done. Now I have to rebuild the trust that was lost.”

Marisol said something in Spanish Pike did not understand, but it was harsh and angry, and Pike knew it was directed at Art.

“Where can I find him, Artie? Tell me where he lives.”

“So you will kill him? No.”

Pike took out the picture of Azzara and Mendoza in the car behind Wilson and Dru.

“So I can save these people or find their bodies. Azzara lied to me. He told me he would stop Mendoza. He told me he didn’t know what happened to them, but here he is with them and Mendoza. Miguel is going to tell me where they are, Art. He knows.”

“No, no more. If I can’t make it here, who is going to help these kids? Who will reach out? Go away, Joe—get out.”

Pike studied Arturo Alvarez, and knew there was no more to say. Artie was old-school hard despite the college degrees. In his world, toughness wasn’t judged by how well you could give a beating, but by how well you took a beating.

“Let me get you to the hospital.”

Art turned toward the window.

Pike glanced at Marisol, then walked away. She followed behind him like an angry guard dog, but Pike stopped in the living room and lowered his voice.

“Does he have a fever?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Check. If he has a fever or starts running hot, call me.”

“You’re a doctor now?”

“See if there’s blood in his urine.”