"Out the back door. Christ, Doc, I had to, you don't know what—Mary, Mother of God, forgive me, but—"
Kintyre stood up, leaning on Guido. A small riot was developing among the clientele and the help. He ignored it, brushing someone aside without even looking. The singer's stool lay at his feet. Guido must have clobbered him with that.
"Suppose you tell me why," he said.
"I—Get out. Get out before the cops come. I'll cover for you—tell them I don't know who you are, you were a stranger and—Get out!" Guido pushed at him, still weeping.
"I don't have anything to fear from them," said Kintyre. "It strikes me that maybe you do."
"Maybe," whispered Guido.
"Bruce died in a nasty way."
"This isn't—nothing to do with—I swear it, Doc, so help me God I do. Think I'd ever—It's something else, for Christ's sake!" Guido spoke in a slurred muted scream. "It's not only the cops I'm scared of, Doc, it's the others. They'd kill me!"
Kintyre studied him for a long second.
After all, he thought, this was Bruce's brother. And Corinna's.