I WAS OUT AT THE clam flats having a smoke when they come and get me. I knew it was coming. Didn’t try and run or nothing, when I seen the cop car. I’m not going to walk in. Let them go home to their wives smelling of dead clams I say. But what’s the point of running? Where to?
The one cop says, “You James J. Emmet of Number Ten Foundry Street?” And then he gives me the part about “You have a right to an attorney” and blah blah blah. Slaps the cuffs on me. “Hey man,” I say, “don’t I get to finish my stink-butt?” He guessed not.
They put me in the backseat naturally. Radio’s on, and it’s me they’re talking about. Can you beat that?
I’m thinking, What about Russell? Now do we go get him? And Lydia? Mrs. Maretto, I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen to her. I’m not thinking about jail yet, or the trial. Alls I’m thinking is shit, I don’t get to make love with Mrs. Maretto this week.
But we don’t make no stops to pick up Russell or nobody. Jeez, I’m starting to wonder, they aren’t thinking I done the whole thing by myself are they? Not that I’m going to tell or nothing. You don’t skunk on your buddy. Even if he is an asshole.
There’s photographers and everything at the cop house. TV cameras, you name it. I just duck my head down low as I can. I don’t want my mother seeing this.
They book me. Take my fingerprints and shit. Just like on TV. Then they bring me down this hall—for questioning, is how they put it. “You can have your attorney present,” the cop says to me. My attorney? Yeah, right.
That’s when I seen Russell. Sitting on a bench with his old man and this other guy in a suit, looks like Perry Mason. I’m just about to say something like “They nailed you too huh?” when I finally get it. It ain’t that way at all. Ain’t them that nailed us. It’s Russell nailed me. Asshole cut a deal with the cops to save his own hide. Me, I’m such a dumb jerk. I don’t open my mouth on account of I can’t get Mrs. Maretto in trouble. I’m still thinking she loves me.