AT THIS TIME, I would normally be at Carla’s. I would be sitting in the same bar stool that I had sat in so many times at this point that I was coming to think of it as my own, and I would be talking to Carla and Sonny after Sofia had gotten bored and had taken to her usual spot near the pool tables where she could keep a watchful eye on me and make a beeline for the bar when Sinclair arrived but be far away from Carla and Sonny, who both treated her with clear disdain.
I would be asking Carla about her fight with that Don guy because it had been one of the most interesting things I had ever seen in my life and the questions swirling in my mind—how did you do that? How long have you trained? Where did you learn to hit like that?—had been swirling endlessly in my mind since last Saturday.
