Satisfaction curls in Tommy's stomach, knowing that at least in this, he has Alfie Solomons. He's careful not to show it: he is ice, like he shows the world.
He gets up, works through the stiffness that has settled in his muscles, and then walks out the door. He takes a wet rag on his way out and cleans the blood off his hands, knowing that he wouldn't even be able to hold on to his cigarette if he didn't. Alfie can handle the rest of it, he figures, and he thinks of that as he smokes.
It doesn't even pay to light a second on the walk over to the house, and so he doesn't. He looks people in the eye and watches them flinch away, and by the time he's made it to the front door no one looks at him, and he is free to anticipate.
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He gets up, works through the stiffness that has settled in his muscles, and then walks out the door. He takes a wet rag on his way out and cleans the blood off his hands, knowing that he wouldn't even be able to hold on to his cigarette if he didn't. Alfie can handle the rest of it, he figures, and he thinks of that as he smokes.
It doesn't even pay to light a second on the walk over to the house, and so he doesn't. He looks people in the eye and watches them flinch away, and by the time he's made it to the front door no one looks at him, and he is free to anticipate.