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 236.

As planned, once I am seated the rookie FBI agent knocks twice, enters after my OK, and places a file folder along with a bottle of water on the desk in front of me. The precise choreography calls for my relocation of the water away from Sarccino and the opening of the file. Although I have already scanned his rap sheet I make a play of re-reading it slowly, almost painfully so. The time also allows for a check of the biometric receiving device I have inside my ear. At last, feigning satisfaction, I close the file with full ceremony making sure the FBI stamp calling its contents CONFIDENTIAL is plainly visible.

"Vincent Mirano Sarccino," I say in the middle voice, "Nato a vicino de Venizia millenovecentosettantotto, si o no, signore?" I almost sing.

"I want a lawyer."

"Ah, inglese, bene, allora, do you have any idea of what you are being charged with, sir?"  

"Haven't the foggiest, and whatever the charges, they're bogus, so let's cut the crap, and yes, I was born in 1978, the year you were supposed to retire old man." He snarls back.

"Are you familiar with section twelve, paragraph six of the Patriot Act?" I ask with civility barely enough for the situation.

"Fuck you."

"And vaffanculo right back attcha. Section twelve, paragraph six specifically states that any perpetrator suspected of involvement with terrorist activities may be held as long as necessary, without legal counsel, until said activities have been satisfactorily demonstrated to be false," I loosely paraphrase. "So it really isn't a matter of what you want - but rather of what I'll grant. Capisci?

I take Sarccino's grunt to be a signal that he both disagrees and understands.

"Good, so lets move the ball downfield. Who ordered the hit?

"Don't know what you're talking about."

My earpiece pings with the biometric signal that his heart-rate has spiked at the exchange.

"Why were you surveilling my hospital room for eight months, armed with the same S&W we removed from your possession earlier today?"

"I don't have to talk to you." Another ping.

"How did you know about the patient in the clinic, and what was the purpose of your visit this morning?"

"Paying my respect."

"Most people bring flowers and not large caliber revolvers when visiting friends in hospitals. What is your connection to the patient?"

"She is a friend of a friend." Immediate ping.

"She?"

Sarccino knows he as been had and shoots a glance at the bottle of water to my right, his left.  

"Would you like some water Vince?" I ask switching to the informal. "Cop the plea. All I want to know is who ordered the hit. We got you as trigger-man dead to rights, and could lock you down for years in court proceedings ending with hard time. You're a young man Vincent, un bel giovanotto, help us and we'll help you."

He licks his lips, dehydrated and tasting the freedom being offered as quid pro quo.

On cue, there comes two knocks on the steel door. The young agent enters and places a second manila file atop the first. It also carries the FBI warning in red ink. The agent leans to whisper in my ear. I place the water bottle in my coat pocket, take the first folder, and stand, leaving the room to Mr. Sarccino and the second file.

"Ciao a presto amico mio, see you soon."

As expected, once the door is shut, Sarccino grabs the file and opens it.

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