Rum’s eyes zip in the sockets like marbles flung into a bowl. “I’m not here to talk about fucking Frankie.” “Yet here we are, talking about him.” “You want his ‘groove’? He’s death. That’s his fucking groove. He’s the coldest, scariest motherfucker I ever met.” Rum holds up his hands. “I’m not saying nothing about Frankie Toomey.”
