Wally O'Neil, the namesake of Wally's Pub, is seventy-two, can't move his legs as fast as he used to.
His son-in-law is half his age, moves like a cat, a cat with a pump shotgun.
"You wanna finish your conversation, finish it somewheres else."
He keeps the shotgun on us until we're all out of the pub and in the street, where Terry breaks for his car, starts it up and speeds off into the night.
Billy and Jack are caught flatfooted but I follow suit, knowing exactly where he's headed.
Towards the one reason that still keeps us in the city: the take.