"Listen, I don't want to get involved with whatever's going on between you and Beecher –"
"Then don't." A bit sharp – he had meant for the reprimand to come off more playfully than that. He liked O'Reily. It was nice to have someone in here he didn't feel the need to pretend with.
"Yeah. Whatever. Alls I'm saying is, that Ronnie Bartog guy is bad news." O'Reily pulled up a chair, sat backwards on it. "I saw him when I was on my way back from medical. Looked like he was on his way to talk to the feds." He shook his head, once, more for dramatic effect than anything. "Man, you really know how to pick em."
Keller stared at him from over the top of the newspaper, inhaled deeply. "You sure?"
O'Reily shrugged. "Pretty sure."
"Alright."
"'Alright?' So are you going to take care of it or what?"
Keller tutted. "What's it to you?"
"Hey man, I just don't want it to connect back to –" he made an inane motion with his head — "you know."
"So what? Won't make it back to you."
O'Reily shifted uncomfortably in the chair, casting a look towards the front of the room. All attention appeared to be onscreen, where Miss Sally's breasts jiggled cartoonishly to the hoots of the crowd, but guys in here had a way of hiding their intentions. "Yeah, and how do I know you don't make a deal with the feds too? We're in for the same, Keller. Life. Anything that comes back to us chucks us on death row and I am not ending up there, man." His gaze lingers on his brother, slumped in his usual spot between Hill and Busmalis. "I can't."
This was all very boring to Keller. He liked O'Reily – maybe that was past tense. It had been simpler in the past, when he was "stealing" Beecher's support system (only to find out that O'Reily was all too happily stolen, free agent that he was). There didn't used to be any of this serious shit. Banter and schemes, and up until now it had all worked out perfectly. Correction – it still worked out perfectly, if this mick kept his fucking mouth shut.
And Barlog…
"What about Beecher?" Keller asked conversationally, returning his attention to the newspaper. It was 3 months old, and the sudoku had been 80% filled in (incorrectly).
"What?"
"Why would Barlog have anything to do with Beecher?"
O'Reily looked at him like he was retarded.
"Let me ask you something." Keller put the paper down and leaned forward, and O'Reily leaned as far in as the chair would let him. He liked O'Reily, but this was starting to get ridiculous. "You killed Nathan's husband, right?"
There was a pause as O'Reily licked his lips. "Yeah."
"So, of all the motherfuckers in here," Keller said, gesturing to the motherfuckers, "you get why I did it."
"I get why you did it, man, and I don't regret it, I don't miss living in the ghetto, but –" Another lick of the lips, nervous tick. "It wasn't right," he muttered.
Keller raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? It wasn't right? What are you, a Boy Scout now? You turning over a new leaf?"
"She hated me," O'Reily hissed.
"Yeah, well," Keller leaned back, picked up the paper again. "Join the club."
"Nah, that's not fair. You guys did fucked up shit to each other, you're still." He waved his hand. "She did nothing to me. I fucked up her life."
"Man, you need to stop drinking the fucking communion wine. Yeah, you fucked up her life, and now you're making googly eyes at each other again."
"I made it up to her."
"By killing Keegan, yeah –"
"Will you keep your voice down?!"
Keller scoffed. "Everyone knows it was you, who are you kidding? Nobody fucking cares. Same as nobody cared about Hernandez, same as nobody cared about Metzger. You're safe on that one."
"Be that as it may," O'Reily said dryly, "neither of us are safe if they find out about –"
"They won't. And if they do, I was the one who got my hands dirty. Don't worry, I won't involve you. So you can rest your stupid mick head about it."
"And how can I trust you?"
Keller sighed. "Well, O'Reily, I guess you can't."
O'Reily sighed back, heavier, as if it was a competition of who could express the most irritation. He got up. "Just watch your back." For a second, Keller interpreted this as some kind of threat – a weird move – before noticing how O'Reily cut his eyes across the common room. Barlog strolled across towards the pod he shared with Beecher. He noticed Keller's gaze, and smiled – genuinely, Keller would have imagined. He smiled back. Genuinely, he hoped it seemed.
He was thinking how Ronnie would look with his throat slit, a second smile under his chin, blood congealing and glistening under the fluorescent lights.