CHAPTER THIRTY-TWOOn the morning of the conjugal, Laroche was restive. He kneaded the muscle in his forearm as if he wanted to separate it from the bone. The lines around his eyes were pulled tight.
Michael shot a look at him. “What’s up?”
“It’s me bleedin’ wossname conjugal, that’s what.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t want to see ’em. Changed me mind.” He shifted his weight in the chair, got up, walked to the door, kicked it, then came and sat back down. “Besides, got a daughter already. My little Zazie. Don’t need another one.” He sniffed then wiped his nose on his shoulder. “Nobody likes to be made a fool of, Rosbif – do they?”
“Who’s making a fool of you?”
“Her bloody mother, that’s who. It’s not the kid. I like kids – couldn’t eat a whole one yada yada oink oink. But she’s having a laugh. Well,
