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Ortolani doesn’t look at Said, the man with some, but not all the answers. He stares instead at his blood-stained knuckles. Some answers, huh?
Ortolani anticipates what could happen next:
He’ll ask, “Would you give your life for me?”
Fuck no.
Or, holding up his fists, he’ll ask, “What the fuck are these good for anyway? Got an answer for that?"
They aren’t good for shit. They aren’t good at all.
Stupid questions. So he doesn’t ask.
Instead: “Yeah, well…” he rises to his feet, finally looking at Said as he moves past, “it’s too bad you're the wrong color.”