Something Kieran had found, a smooth Irish whiskey called Redbreast they were having over ice, one cube each. “Tell me about McCudden and Walsh,” Sean said. “Are they total fuck-ups or can they not catch a break? First they lose the Jew they’re supposed to grab, now they get beaten up by Canadians. One of them a girl. That makes them 0 for 2.” Kieran was Sean’s oldest friend from Russell Street, and his best friend left. He had the size Sean lacked, a little over six-two and 20 pounds heavier than when he’d played football—call it 240 now, but still all brick, no mortar. “Walsh says they got suckered. Says the guy rammed them in an alley.” “What does McCudden say?” “He ain’t talking yet. Still doped up. Took two pretty good shots.” “From a Canadian.” “Yeah.” “Jesus,” Sean said, shaking his head. “What have I been saying since I started this, Kieran? What’s the one thing I repeated over and fucking over?” “We need the right guys …” “Thank you.
