“Tell me something, Richard—are you superstitious?” “Me? You ask an old wop like me if I’m superstitious? Growing up in a family where my mother and grandmother and all my aunts went around hail-Marying and praying to every saint you ever heard of and another bunch you didn’t ever hear of and covering up the mirrors when someone died and poking the sign of the evil eye at crows and black cats that crossed their path? Me? You ask me a question like that?” “Yeah,” Billy said, smiling a little in spite of himself. “I ask you a question like that.” Richard Ginelli’s voice came back, flat, hard,
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