Watched by the Capo's Driver

I've worked the 911 desk in my county for eight years and I've never once called the number my mother left me for emergencies. Then a caller rang my station twelve nights in a row with information about a body that hadn't turned up yet — and I started writing things down. The body turned up. The detectives questioned me. Then a service truck started idling across from my apartment at night, and the man inside held a clipboard and drank bad coffee and pretended to clean a windshield that was already clean. He was a capo's driver named Ivan, and he'd been watching me because his capo wanted to know what I knew. I knew nothing. He didn't believe me. His capo was arrested because I kept the tape. The family burned Ivan's name over it, and I couldn't put mine back on a statement. Now he lives two floors above me and answers the same dispatch line I do. I gave him the number my mother left me. That's the whole of what I have to give anybody.