‘I’m a mick.’ ‘You’re on the wrong crew. How come you ain’t driving nails?’ ‘I’m a spy.’” —SJ Rozan, No Colder Place MY ZOMBIE TWIN, NICK. Something had happened to him in the few days between the charade at the heist and this evening. Wouldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t very well throw stones at him given my closed mouth. Was fucking eerie though, like looking in the mirror at myself the day after Kathleen’s death. Had that same haunted look. The world had shifted beneath his feet. All the assumptions that let him sleep at night had been yanked out from under him. O’Connor had told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to push Boyle and his boyos too far. “That was foolish, lad, not drinking with him like that. What were you out to prove?” The prick was right, of course. As big a dick as Boyle was, he hadn’t anything to do with Kathleen’s murder, not really. My fight was with Rudi, the calculating, cold-hearted cocksucker, and it was a score I meant to have someday.
