Free Bust by Jason Starr, Ken Bruen

said. “I happen to like your tits, but I like your arse better.”
    “Thanks a lot,” Angela said.
    “You’re welcome.”
    Angela sat up, looking down at her breasts. “I don’t care what anybody says — I like them just the way they are.”
    Dillon sat up and started rolling another joint under the lamp on the night table. Angela, leaning over, started kissing his back and stomach. He had the smell of peat, the smell of the bogs, but she liked it. She said, “You know what else he told me. He said he wants to marry me.”
    “So?” Dillon said. “You gotta marry him so we get his money, right? That’s the plan, right?”
    “Yeah,” Angela said.
    She’d been hoping Dillon was going to propose himself one of these days. Dream on.
    Dillon licked the edge of the rolling paper and sealed the joint. He lit up and took a long hit, then passed it on to Angela. Dillon said, “Dunno why I smoke this shite, it hasn’t had an effect on me since the eighties. Now you give me a double of Bushmills, I can whistle the whole of the Star Spangled Banner.”
    She’d always gotten a big kick out of this — Dillon claiming that pot had no effect him. Meanwhile, he’d smoke a joint, then pick up a shot of Bushmills and try to put it in his ear.
    His voice already getting really slow, he asked, “See... what... I... mean?”
    The day of the murder Angela kissed Dillon goodbye before she went to work, knowing it would be the last time she’d see him before Deirdre Fisher was dead. Dillon was in the dining area, sitting on a chair reading his book.
    He held up a finger, said, “Listen to this.” Then in his richest, most gorgeous voice intoned, “This is from Shunryu Suzuki... What do you want enlightenment for?... You may not like it.”
    She didn’t get it, said, “I don’t get it.”
    He laughed, said, “Tis few do.”
    Dillon said he loved New York, called it his twisted city, and she wanted to add, “Yeah, matches your lips,” but never did because she was afraid of his temper. Although Dillon had never hit her, she thought he was the type who could. Violence simmered in him. It was never turned off — just went dormant sometimes.
    “I’m going to take this town by the balls,” he said, and she said, “Good luck.”
    He stood, produced a green emerald brooch, and said, “Back home, on Paddy’s day, we have the wearing of the green.” He pinned it on her breast, hurting her a little, but she didn’t even flinch. She figured, like all his countrymen, he was truly fucked up and wouldn’t give a shit anyway.
    He put on a pair of very snazzy shades and said, “One time I was in Lizzie Bordello’s in Dublin. U2 were holding court and I nicked Bono’s glasses, you think I look like him?”
    He looked like a horse’s ass but being a woman, she said, “You kidding? You make Bono look like Shrek.”
    Dillon smiled, said, “Hold that thought, allanna.”

Eight
    I had to give the guy credit. He didn’t back down easy. I’d have to watch him closely. His type could sneak right up and bite you in the ass.
    R EED F ARREL C OLEMAN , The James Deans
    Sixteen years ago, when he got back from Desert Storm, Bobby took an acting class at some place downtown on Broadway. He didn’t want to be an actor — no, that pussy Hamlet , Streetcar , Death of a Whatever shit wasn’t for him. He just wanted to learn how to play a role, make people know right away he was the type of guy who didn’t take shit from nobody.
    He knew he needed some acting lessons big time when he pulled his first bank job, out at a Chase in Astoria. He went up to the teller, slid the note under the window, and stood there, trying to look like a guy who didn’t fuck around, like Ray Liotta in Something Wild . But the girl looked at him, just for a second, like, Are you for real? Bobby thought he even saw her start to smile for a second there, like she didn’t believe a guy looked like him could pull a bank job. His crew got away with the cash,