"I hear bread and meat are killing people these days. Specially the bread." That much had been left behind in New York. He hadn't seen one gluten-free bread loaf since he got here. Wasn't gluten bread, anyway? How did you get to be bread without the bread?
Frank didn't apologize to Nick over getting benched. That had to be the last thing the guy needed, christ knew he didn't want anybody saying sorry to him. "Think you found your second calling," he said, instead, and took another long sip from the cup. "Ah, damn. If the sandwich's half as good, I'll be here more than I oughta."
There was something distinctly edgy about Frank. It wasn't just his roving eye, or the tick of his fingers, trickling against each other, flicking and tapping without his notice. New ones, too, since he took the bullet. Compensatory spasms, so the doctors said. He just felt antsy.
"Isn't that asshole dead? ...Nah, he was in that movie. Anyway, still got both my ears," he pinned one down with two fingers to demonstrate. "Just...a bad job." That smile was quick to appear, and quick to disappear again. It was gone now. He could stare so starkly that you'd think the smile never was. "He still around?" Frank gestured to Nick, to his person, to what had been done. If the person who'd done it was still alive, they shouldn't be.