Page 33
By the seventh, people started calling me his fixer.
I didn’t pick the title, but I never argued. It fits.
The office is above a restaurant Frank opened back in the eighties, although Greco’s has gone through enough renovations that very little of the original place remains apart from the name and the old man’s insistence that one photograph of his parents stay beside the bar.
It’s past midnight when I get there.
Downstairs, the restaurant is dark except for one lone bartender counting receipts under the hanging lights, surrounded by chairs stacked on tables. He nods when I come in. I nod back.
Upstairs, Quillan is walking out of Mathias’s office as I approach. He’s carrying two phones, a folder, and a glass of amber liquid. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, tie loosened, dark hair pushed away from his face.
Quillan takes after Frank more than Mathias does, both physically and in temperament. Where Mathias can sit silently for ten minutes before deciding what he wants to say, Quillan has rarely encountered a thought he doesn’t believe deserves immediate release into the world.
He eyes the cardboard carrier in my left hand. “That for me?”
“No.”
“But there are two cups.”
“One is Mathias’s.”
“And?”
“Mine.”
“You hate coffee this late.”
“Yeah, but I hate you more.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Good evening to you too, sunshine.”
“Go home.”
“Was planning on it.” His gaze flicks to my left sleeve, where a faint dark smudge stands out. “Kill somebody?”
“Do I ask what you did at work today?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit. I don’t care what you do.”
Quillan scoffs, shaking his head. “Rude. You really need more friends.”
“I have the correct number.”
“Zero?”
“Exactly.”
Quillan laughs and keeps walking, disappearing downstairs as I push open Mathias’s door.
“Your brother is exhausting.”
Mathias looks up from his desk. “He likes you.”
“I’ve never understood why.”
“Because it’s a challenge for him.” He sighs, closing the laptop in front of him.
