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“I need a beer.”
Pete reached back and hooked the fridge door open without looking around. “I thought you might.” What had been bare earlier tinkled now. “Or I have spirits.”
“Whisky makes me maudlin. Vodka makes me vomit. I can't stand Southern Comfort. And brandy....” Joe selected a bottle of Snecklifter. “Actually, I've never drunk enough brandy to form an opinion.”
“Was it him?” Pete laid the knife down and looked around from the messily filleted chicken this time.
Joe was paying undue attention to the bottle cap. Happy it was clean he drew out his keys and levered it off with the bottle opener that nestled amongst them. “It was him.”
Pete didn't see the expression that flashed across Joe's face, like someone had whacked him in the ribs. He took a drink of the beer. “He had his throat slashed. Not a way to go, even for a prick like him.”