"Roight, roight. Jus' needed t'nail down the plan fer the next get-together, lad. Got some t'ings I need moved, t'em Mundy boys never leave me wantin' fer merchandice." Mickey said, not bothering to hide the Irish brogue in the privacy of his office. He let his tiny legs dangle from the edge of the table as he spoke, taking a puff on his cigar. It was a cheap little thing, barely above a regular cigarette, but in his tiny hand it looked like a damned Cuban. "Speakin'a merchandice, been meanin' t'talk wit'cha 'bout some new product. Next meetin', t'ough. Best'a luck wit' t'at fookin' dog. He's waitin' fer an excuse to toss both our asses in the Witchin' Well." He hung up then, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fucking great, Bigby was already on the job. If he was going over to talk to Max, it probably wouldn't be long before dropped in to say "Hi" to him too. He'd have to be prepared...

"Oi, boys, keep an eye out. We're gonna be expectin' company tonight..."