Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

63

Dwyer was sitting in the shite hole drinking a Newcastle and looking out the window when Rickie arrived, and he couldn’t help laughing at the sight of oversized Ruthless in his silly little Japanese motor. He could practically stick his arms out the windows and his feet out the floor and carry it around his waist as if going to a costume party dressed as a car. When he got out, he looked a little weary but otherwise unfettered.

He carried a plastic rubbish bag in his left hand and walked into the room.

“I’ll have one of those, please,” Rickie said of Dwyer’s Newcastle. Dwyer pointed to the remainder of the sixer in a plastic ice bucket.

“Did you get him?” he asked.

“Nah,” Rickie said, popping open the ale. “I waited as long as I thought it was wise.”

“So, nothing then?” Dwyer asked.

“Well …” Rickie said, and went into the bathroom. Dwyer heard him empty the contents of the bin bag into the sink and turn on the faucet. He got to the door in time to see the water run pink over the tools in the basin.

“What happened?” Dwyer demanded.

Rickie met his eyes in the mirror. “I had to do the big guy’s wife.”