Nine minutes out, and the wind has started taking the tops off the water. Your hands are still on the crank when the thin one in the properly knotted tie walks past the pool without looking at it, sets a blue folder on the deck table, and squares its corner with one finger.
"Page four,"
he says.
"Sit down and read it before the rain gets here."
He is the third of the four: black hair combed straight back off his forehead, a small black stud in one ear, a white shirt buttoned to the collar and a black tie done properly, taller than the others and narrower, with big hands that look borrowed from somebody larger.
Behind him the cover comes across in one pull. The loud one took the crank out of your hands and felt your ribs catch when he did, and Nevio is already looking at your side. Then Nevio takes the hem of your shirt between two fingers and lifts it: yellow-green at the edges, new over the ribs. Nobody says anything at all.
Costanzo looks at the marks for exactly as long as he looks at a column of numbers. Then he looks back at the folder and opens it to the fourth page.
"Read it,"
he says again.
"Then tell me what you would have done with it. I have wanted to ask you that for three months."