The staff and players’ parking lot at the Rialto stadium. A dozen or so vehicles are still there, sweating raindrops. They gleam in the light from the high lamps that illuminate the fenced-in compound.RODERIGO emerges from the unmarked door through which players and officials enter and exit the stadium. He is wearing a light-blue linen shirt beneath an expensive leather jacket and is smiling at the text message displayed on his phone. He walks toward his car — one of his cars — a bronze Lexus coupe. As he passes a big four-wheel drive, its window slides down to reveal the face of TRESOR.RODERIGO: Boss?TRESOR: Get in the car.RODERIGO: What?TRESOR: Get in the car. You and me are gonna have a private chat.RODERIGO [holding his phone up as if it has the power to ward off evil forces]: Um, yeah, but . . . Does it have to be now? Like, I’ve —TRESOR: Yeah, it does have to be now. Get in the damn car.[RODERIGO gets into the car. He and TRESOR look at the rivulets on the windshield, not at each other.]TRESOR: Actually, I shouldn’t have gotten you into the car.
