“I needs you to tell me, Victor, about that statue of limitations.”

“Are we talking art or crime.”

“What do I know about art?”

“Considering your record, Joey, you don’t know much about crime either. What you are asking about is the statute of limitations. The law doesn’t want you running scared your whole life about something you might have done wrong years ago. If the prosecutor doesn’t bring the case within a set amount of time, then he can’t bring it at all.”

“How long he got?”

“Depends on the crime.”

“Let’s say drugs or something?”

“Possession only? Two years.”

“How about theft?”

“Simple theft? Same two.”

“How about with a gun?”

“Robbery? Five.”

“How about you beat some moke with a baseball bat?”

“Aggravated assault. Still five.”

“And what if the moke you beat with the baseball bat goes ahead on his own and dies?”

“Joey.”

“Just answer the question, Victor.”

“There’s no statute of limitations for murder.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“But it was twenty years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Double shit. We needs to meet.”

“How about Thursday?”

“How about now, Victor? La Vigna, you know it?”

“Yeah, I know it. But why the rush?”

“Now, Victor. Please. I’ll pay you to show up.”

“You’ll pay me?” I said.

“I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared to death.”

And he was, was Joey Cheaps, scared enough to offer to pay me, which for him was scared as hell, and I suppose, based on what I saw beneath the blue sheet of plastic, he had every right to be.