“And do you like the taste of blood in your mouth? Did you enjoy the way that gun kicked in your hand? If you did, you should be scared, because those edges will get a whole lot rougher, and quick. I can’t change it so that you never killed that man. That road has no turnarounds. But I can stop you going any further. Your mother—Mary—and me.”

From his pocket he drew my gun. It was certainly my gun now. He placed it between us on the seat. Two bullets left.

“You want it? Take it. But if you pick that pistol up again, this city is closed to you. I’ve killed more men than I can count, and I see their faces every time I lay my head down to sleep. They look scared, and they beg me for a mercy that I can no longer grant. If you want that for yourself, take the gun. It belongs to you.”

I was reaching for it when the car clattered over a vicious pothole, and I slammed my head into the window.

“Are you all right?” said Virgil, reaching out a hand to steady me. I pushed it away.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

I rubbed my temple and looked outside, and in the shadows of the side street I saw something I should have seen coming.

“Stop the car!” I said.

“No.”

I threw open the door and leapt out. It wasn’t so daring—we weren’t going that fast—but Virgil was surprised, and frankly so was I. I stumbled but caught myself before I fell—caught myself on the handle of the door to the little shop whose display window held purses, wallets, belts, coats, loafers, riding crops, and gloves of all kinds, and whose door was marked with a carving of the bloody fist.

Virgil slammed the car to a stop and hopped onto the curb, flush with outrage. It had always been so easy to make him mad.

“Aren’t you coming in?” I said.

“Goddamn it,” he answered, slamming his fist on the hood of the car. He did not follow me inside.

The shop was narrow, long, and dark. The smell of leather was nauseating. The woman balanced on a stool behind the counter, not as fat as in my city, and not as happy to see me. She did not look up when I came through the door. Andrea Barbarossa was engrossed in her work—repairing the heel of a black leather boot—and nothing could tear her away.

I ran my finger along the wall, touching everything. No wonder she didn’t bother to greet her customers. Work this exquisite spoke for itself.