"I just wanted to get away," Eric said minutes, addressing the space between his hands. "I was scared."
"Was what?" Matty squinted in disbelief, then turned to Yolanda. "He was what?"
Yolanda looked helpless and grief-stricken, a powerless mother watching her child being beaten by her husband.
Eric finally raised his face, stared at Matty, gape-mouthed.
"Yeah, you look me right in the eye, you fucking ant."
"Matty..." Yolonda finally put out her hand.
"I have listened to you shit in here all day. You are a self-centered, self-pitying, cowardly, envious, resentful, failed-ass career waiter. That's your everyday jacket. Now, add to that a gun and a gutful of vodka? I don't believe that shooting last night was an accident. I think you were a walking time bomb and last night you finally went off."
Eric sat there in a rapture of attention, chin uptilted as if for a kiss, his eyes never leaving Matty's.
"We are giving you one last chance to tell us what happened. Save your own skin and give us any version you want to justify your own part in it, but you get the ball rolling right here, right now...And I swear to fucking Christ, if you hand us one more time that pernicious horseshit about a, a Hispanic and, or, and, or some, some black guy coming out the shadows or wherever, I will make sure this goes down for you in the worst possible way."
They waited. Eric shimmering in his seat, Yolonda giving him the mournful big eye, Matty glaring at him, but praying that he was even vaguely justified in laying into the guy like this.
"All I can say is what happened," Eric finally said, his voice infinitesimal, his eyes still fixed on Matty's.
And there you have it.