fuck you.
i bounced you on my knee at family reunions, for christ sakes. your dad and me ran the whole east coast syndicate you snot-nosed little prick. and when you took the wheel, who was beside you?
don't start with your shit. don't you talk to me. oh, hey uncle gussy, thanks for years of service. here's a gold watch and a job sniffing other guys' shit eight hours a day. what am i, a retired bus driver?
the duke? what did you do?
listen kid, i think you better understand who you're dealing with here.
your dad and i used him three times over twenty years, only when everything went totally fucked. believe me kid, you don't want this guy unless you are 100% sure you need him. he is.  a fuckin' monster.
i've had this guy in front of me, and i couldn't tell you what he looks like, sounds like. he is the picasso of assassins, kid. he plants hair samples, blood. puts skin under fingernails. he is a fucking genius. only one problem. he's been rotting in prison for twenty-five or thirty years. don't even know if he's still alive. or if he's even up to it.
go find one.
i don't know who he is. nobody does.
needed an outsider. the package boy knows everyone. he'd spot our hitters a mile away.
well he's the one shooting up all his guys, right? he's scared of the kid. says he's real good, got every available gun in the city up there.
up his house. i don't know what's going on but i know it's gotta have something to do with this kid.