“He’s got to go, Al,” Scanlon said. He was shouting now but could barely be heard above the din of the fire engines, the crowds milling as close to the destroyed construction site as they could get. “I let you talk me out of it one time. I’m not going to make that mistake a second time.” “Let’s take care of what’s in front of us first,” Collins said in as calm a voice as he could manage. “This and the fiasco on the West Side.” “And you think these two situations, both happening on the same night, are what? A coincidence?” Scanlon shouted, not caring who overheard him. “You don’t think that punk bastard’s fingerprints are all over this mess? And I do what now? Stand here and start over, act like it never happened? That bastard dies, I’m telling you, even if I have to pull the trigger myself. Have I made my point clear?” “Let’s take a walk, Frank,” Collins said. “We need to talk. Maybe someplace that has fewer than twenty-five potential witnesses listening to our conversation.”
