Blood of My Brother by James Lepore

confidence. Sleeping badly, if at all, of late, going days between shaves and showers, his hair longer than usual, there was a mad look to him that he now saw reflected in Davis’s wary eyes.
    “I’m a lawyer,” Jay said, reaching for his wallet to produce one of his cards. “Dan’s mother asked me to handle his estate. All this stuff will have to be sold or given away.”

    They both looked slowly around the apartment, at the open, well stocked kitchen—Danny was a great cook—the comfortable living room, the Persian rug beneath Jay’s feet, the television and stacks of magazines and books, the artwork on the walls—Danny’s home—and then back at each other.
    “Didn’t I see you at the wake?” Jay asked.
    “I was there.”
    The black man took the card from Jay, read it, and then walked over and extended his hand.
    “I’m Bill Davis,” he said. “I’m sorry to be so stiff, but it’s not every day your neighbor is murdered, with people traipsing in and out at all hours.”
    “The cops, you mean?”
    “How about I stand you a drink, Mr. Cassio? You look like you could use it.”
    “Call me Jay.”
    “Jay.”
    “Sure.”
    “Is bourbon okay?”
    “A little ice.”
    Davis left and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two cut crystal rocks glasses, one with ice in it. He sat on the couch, placed the bottle and glasses on the coffee table in front of him, and poured three fingers neat for himself and a healthy splash for Jay, who had returned to his easy chair.
    “So how did you know my name?” Davis asked, reaching with his glass to touch Jay’s.
    “Danny mentioned you moved in over the summer.”
    “He brought me a bottle of bourbon as a welcome.”
    Jay did not respond.
    “We’re drinking the last of it.”

    “I saw you with your wife at the wake,” Jay said. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
    “You didn’t scare me, but a couple of others have.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “There were two punks here,” Davis said. “Mexicans, I think. I was coming back with groceries. The police tape was down, so I pushed the door in, like a fool.”
    “When was this?”
    “Couple of weeks ago.”
    “Dan owed a shylock some money.”
    “How much?”
    “A few grand.”
    “These were no collectors of a few grand. They were reptiles.”
    “What did they say?”
    “They were looking for Danny’s girlfriend.”
    “He didn’t have a girlfriend.”
    “A beautiful Mexican woman. They showed me her picture.”
    “Had you seen her before?”
    “Never.”
    “What did she look like?”
    “Long, dark hair. Beautiful face. She looked like Sophia Loren. They don’t come more beautiful than that.”
    “How old?”
    “Mid-twenties.”
    “How old were these two guys? What did they look like?”
    “The same, mid-twenties. They might have been twins, shiny black hair, swarthy. Eyes like snakes. They said the girl was their sister. They hadn’t seen her for a few weeks. They were worried about her.”
    “Did you get their names?”

    “You must be kidding.”
    “Do you have the picture?”
    “They never let go of it.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    “Of course, and who shows up but the FBI. Special Agent Chris Markey.”
    Jay had not been convinced that the two Mexicans Davis described were quite as scary as they appeared to the old man, nor that they were involved with Danny in anything but one of his low-grade schemes. Possibly Danny had hired them to dump a car for a friend, and they were looking to collect their fee. Possibly they didn’t know he was dead and were looking to buy, or sell, some dope. But the FBI was not interested in small-time insurance fraud, or the occasional five hundred dollar marijuana deal. They investigated interstate criminal activity and crimes under federal law. How did Danny’s death, and these two Mexicans, fit into that?
    “What did he want?”
    “He asked a lot of questions, the same as you.”
    “Did these guys kill