“I have to see about Paolo,” she said. “I will check on you tomorrow.”
McWilliams was still standing as Betta left, his head down doing his best not to ogle her long legs. Once she was gone, he sat his long, sturdy frame into the chair by the side of the couch.
“Who tell you Filthy Man murdered?” McWilliams asked.
I held the pint bottle of rum up offering him a drink. He shook his head.
“Was he murdered, McWilliams?”
He stared at me. “Maybe I will take a wee shot of that Stallion,” he said.
I got up from the couch and brought back a glass from the kitchen. I poured a small shot of the rum. He quickly drank it down.
“That man who break your arm last night say so,” McWilliams said.
I sat up straighter after hearing that.
“He said Filthy Man was murdered?”
McWilliams nodded.
“Did h
