Half to himself, half to Rusty – the way these conversations always go - Danny mused, "One more should do it."
"No, you're right – at least two."
Danny blinked, closed his eyes for a second.
"Aaron and Irish John?"
Danny found an answer in the silence.
"Irish and Jeb Carter. I'll get Virgil to get them."
Danny leaned forward and flicked a tiny bit of dust off Rusty's silken shirt of blue and green.
"This the best Basher could do?"
Danny smiled tiredly, a smile without deliberate charm, a smile that only Rusty knew.
"I suppose it was."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes.
"So there's the …. And Linus in Florida. And the other… thing…. Are we ready?"
He looked at Rusty. For years and years it had been like this – until sometimes it seemed that there had been no other life. They talked in half-sentences, in thoughts they scarcely needed to say. Danny read Rusty in 'tells' so small, so intimate no one else knew they were there. But… a dead man has no tells. Danny smoothed where the tattoo lay night-dark against ghostly skin and answered his own question.
"We'll get them, Rus."