About one in four nights Al actually was able to sleep, and this had been one of them.
One more reason to hate the mafia.
He staggered up, swung the door open, then shuffled back to the sofa to find his shorts.
He'd known this day could come. If he was honest with himself maybe he'd hoped it would. He'd even made the necessary preparations.
Looked like he was on his way to London.
He told himself it was because Tony Franciosa had relocated there, though from what he'd heard, that bridge might now be burned before even being crossed. Carl Ryder passed through there quite a bit, giving red belt workshops to double-platinum dojo members, and promoting his chips.
But deep down he knew the real reason why, of the whole world that wasn't Seattle, he'd chosen London.
And he still probably wouldn't call the number.
He poked around in the moldy sofa cushions in search of his first smoke of the day - the only good thing there ever was about waking up in the morning. Pointed at the fridge, and Thorn knew what to do, opening it up,taking out two beers, and tossing one to Al.
"Well, kemo sabe, looks like we done gambled an' lost." He shrugged. "Still, reckon we did pretty good fer our first premeditated murder. Now, though, it ain't jist Arty's pack of imbeciles. He was a made man, an' now they all gotta come after us, with all they bought cops and hackers on tap an' pet Satanists with they rituals. Only thing ta do is beat feet as far an' fast as we can. Now ol' Al, the fucking picture o' prepartion an' foresight, done already arranged a flight fer Frisco, off the books, under the radar, an' flowers in my hair. They's an extra seat if ya want it. And...or...if they's anythin' ya need my help wrappin' up afore leavin', jist say the word amigo. Jist say the word."