Betrayal and Bartering

The air in that interrogation room was thicker than the stale cigar smoke clinging to my cheap suit. I could practically chew it. Detective Miller, all sharp angles and tired eyes, sat across from me, his gaze like a scalpel dissecting every lie I’d ever told. And believe me, I was a goddamn surgeon of deceit. My usual wisecracks felt like lead weights in my gut. The thrill was gone, replaced by the cold, hard dread of a man staring down the barrel of life. Or worse.

“So, Joey,” Miller drawled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with a practiced patience. “We’ve been down this road before, haven’t we? Little scams, petty theft, the usual neighborhood mischief. But this… this is a whole different ballpark.” He gestured vaguely, as if the entire criminal underworld was spread out on the linoleum floor. “We’re talking murder, Joey. Big-time rackets. And you, my friend, you were right in the thick of it.”

I shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the cheap material sticking to my sweaty back. “Look, Detective, I’m just a guy who liked a good time. A guy who got caught up.” My voice was a little too high, a little too shaky. Not the smooth operator Vinny Moretti had tried to mold me into.