Chapter 11: Rule Three

Bruno came in through the kitchen door at nine that night holding his left arm against his chest.

His shirt sleeve was black and wet to the elbow.

"Don't say anything," he said, to Silvio.

"Sit," I said.

He sat.

I had the kit out of the canvas bag in under a minute, because I had put it where I could find it.

The cut ran from his wrist almost to the elbow, jagged, with glass still in it.

"What happened?"

"Somebody put a car into the side of mine on Delaware Avenue," Bruno said. "I put my arm through the window. It's nothing."

"It's twenty stitches."

"Then it's twenty."

I irrigated it and picked out four slivers of glass with forceps.

Bruno looked at the ceiling and swore softly, in two languages.

"Who put a car into yours?" I asked.

The kitchen went still.

Silvio was leaning against the counter with his arms folded.

"Rule three," he said.

"I know what rule three says."

"You don't ask about the business."

"I'm sewing up your driver," I said. "I'm going to ask."

Bruno made a small sound that might have been a laugh.

"My uncle's man," Silvio said, after a moment. "He's not stupid enough to do it twice."

"He'll do it a third time."

"Yes."

"Then I need to know when, because I'm the one holding the needle."

I tied off the last stitch, wrapped Bruno's arm in gauze, and told him to keep it elevated and not to drive for a week.

He told me he would drive in a week.

He went upstairs.

I stood at the sink with my sleeves pushed up, washing Bruno's blood off my hands.

I heard Silvio come up behind me, and I didn't turn around.

"You broke it," he said.

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