He kept a briefcase in his room,
a numbered lock, a loaded gun.
“What’s in it?” Nothing. Just a shrug
the way a monk seals up a tomb.
A year of nights, a silent proof;
a secret tucked behind the rug.
Too young for badges or the trade,
all bone and reach in undershirt,
just street enough to film a world
where men spoke easy into tape—
gang lore, a birthday stolen late.
I guessed at film, or cash, or dirt.
He drank. He warned me. Click by click,
the case gave up the girls they picked.