Ethan was never one for bars, and Joe had had little choice but to follow his lead.

They sat in a corner of the chain restaurant on brightly coloured vinyl bench seating, dripping onto the scrubbed white tiles, while over-processed music leaked out of worn out speakers. The kid behind the counter had eyed them wearily, as they entered the deserted joint. Soaking wet and disheveled, they were, at first glance, easily mistaken for some of the many drifters, who roamed the city’s streets. However, the roll of twenties Ethan had made a show of using to pay for their meals had put a happier look on the boy’s face, and a better class of fake sincerity in his tone.

“Why now?”

“You know why, Joe,” Ethan replied through a half chewed mouthful of burger.

“Yeah. Whose call was that, again?”

“Zeke’s.”

“Zeke’s dead.”

“I heard you killed him. Still, he set this in motion, and there’s no one, and nothing, left to stop it happening.”

“Wrong name, Ethan,” said Joe, his knife hard and cold against the other man’s skin.