“I agree,” he said. “Let me tell you something. I knew Felix a lot longer than you did. First time he showed up was six or eight years back. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. He asked for a couple of bucks and I turned him down. I said I needed work done and was he willing or not? He said yes, so I let him sweep up. He’d break down boxes, take out trash, and stuff like that. In exchange, I’d buy him dinner. Nothing fancy, but it wasn’t fast food. Sometimes I’d slip him a ten to see him through until his disability check came in. After a while, I guess he lost interest or found some other way to make ends meet. I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

“But you still won’t look at mug shots.”

“No, I will not. You know what I’d get in return? That two-bit gangster and his cronies would come in here looking for me. Punch my lights out, smash my plate-glass windows, pull merchandise off the racks, and stuff it down their pants. Where does that leave me?”

“Would you at least think about it?”

“No, because nothing’s going to change. Not you, not me, not that kid’s death. I get your point. You’d like to do what you can. Me, too, for that matter, but I won’t put myself in harm’s way. I got a wife and kids and they come first. You might think I’m a coward, but I’m not.”

“I understand. I just can’t think what else to do for him.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. This is nothing against you or Felix. I know my limits. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

I took out a business card and placed it on the counter. “If anything else comes up, could you give me a call?”

“No, but I wish you luck.”

•   •   •

When I returned to the studio, I passed Dietz’s red Porsche parked half a block away. Either he hadn’t found Con Dolan at home or information had been in short supply. There was a parking place on the far side of the street, so I made a U-turn and pulled into it. I grabbed my shoulder bag and the mailing pouch, locked my car, crossed the street, and let myself in through the gate.