Al Mendoza had to tell them. Not that he liked to squeal. Even on a guy like Andrés Segovia, who was permanently pissed off at the world. When they came up to him, the two detectives, he knew why they were there. He had a bad feeling. He hated this shit. So they asked. And he gave them Andrés Segovia’s name. He answered all their questions. “And you took him home? What did he say?”
“Nothing, he said nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He was crying.”
“Crying?”
“Yeah, crying. That man hurt him.”
“Yeah? How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I just do. Andrés was crying. He’s not the kind of guy who does that sort of thing.”
“Kills people with his fists, or cries?”
“He doesn’t do any of those things.”
“Well, a few nights ago, he did both.”