Payday. Conner tried to focus on the job, running a knife through the last few cuts of raw meat, as the clock ticked down to four-thirty. Across the bloody table, Murphy wasn't helping. His twin danced excitedly from foot to foot while glancing at the clock every few seconds.

Finally, Murphy stabbed his knife violently through the last piece and flung it into the bin, where it landed with a wet thud. Coming around the table, he slung an arm across his brother's shoulders. "Come on, then. Haven't forgotten the day, have ya?"

Of course he hadn't forgotten. Today was Friday, and Friday was payday. In just a couple minutes, they'd have enough money to pay their few bills, buy some much-needed groceries, and even have a bit left over for a couple of rounds at Doc's bar. Assuming he got changed and to their boss's office before his brother.

Beside him, Murphy was already rhapsodizing about the large quantities of alcohol he was planning to drink. A true Irishman, Conner liked his beer and whiskey, but one of them had to be a little sensible too. And sense had never been his brother's strong suit. Conner, for one, couldn't live on Bushmills and Guiness; he needed to shop for actual food now and then.

Stripping out of the heavy, blue nylon jumpsuit and blood spattered white jacket, he pulled on his wool pea coat and shoes at top speed, racing out of the changing room with Murphy close behind. He lead the way at a run down the corridor, up a narrow, metal spiral staircase, and down another corridor. Murphy grabbed his coat and shoved him out of the way just as they reached McGerkin's office door.

The little, bald Irishman was waiting for them, blue and white paycheck in hand. He smiled at the brothers jostling each other for the best position. It was a game they played every other week. He held the check out, weaving it indecisively between the boys as if considering who to hand it to.

Conner watched the check raptly, fingers crossed it didn't go to Murphy. The suspense nearly killing him, McGerkin held out the folded piece of paper. To him. He sighed visibly.

The supervisor laughed. "Sorry, Murph, maybe next time."

Murphy slugged Conner in the shoulder as they walked at a more sedate pace back towards the stairs. "We get to drink at least some of that, right?"

"Oh, aye," Conner agreed. It was Friday after all.

Moving to Boston had been a spontaneous decision made after a little too much drinking, but Conner didn't regret it a bit. A meat-packing plant wasn't exactly the career choice their ma dreamed of for her boys, but it paid better than most jobs available to two college dropouts. Fresh from their third and final year at University of Ireland and verging on eviction, they had to make a choice because, much as they loved her, going home to ma was not an option.

They arrived with nothing more than a couple changes of clothes in a battered old suitcase and one hundred dollars between them. America wasn't exactly a land of opportunity, but South Boston was still home to a lot of first and second-generation Irish willing to help a fellow Irishman. Their apartment wasn't much, but it was affordable and something: one big room in an old warehouse, the battered table missing a leg and a microwave that worked only some of the time, a rotten couch with a broken back sagging in the middle, and an old tv that played their rented movies only in black and white. It was as fresh a start as anyone could get - only the Celtic crosses hanging on hooks by the door indicated their heritage.

The snoring lump of blankets on the other mattress is the only link he has to his childhood. Sometimes Conner wishes his past came in the form of tiny little baby clothes or albums full of embarrassing pictures, but he'd never trade his twin for any of those trinkets. Those childish mementos could stay in Ireland with their ma. Much as he sometimes wants to hit him, Murph is all the memory he needs.

"But Ma, we went to church last week." Twelve year old Conner pouted and raised his eyes pleadingly to the woman currently straightening his twin's tie.

Murphy nodded. "And the week before that, and the week before that, and every other week." His eyes bulged as their mother gave the tie a final, strangling tug.

"I don't care if you went to church every day," she growled, picking up a comb to attack Conner's unruly cowlick. "So you can piss and moan all you want, and you're still going."

( Continued... )

Three Dead as Saints Kill Again

Conner scoffed and dismissively tossed the folded newspaper to the padded seat of the pew. He readjusted his perch on the wooden back of the bench in front. "Saints end up dead at the end of the stories. We'd like to avoid that."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. He slouched in the pew, his feet propped up next to his brother. "Besides, we aren't passive enough t'be saints."

The brothers shared a silent, approving thought before looking back to the three detectives sitting nervously in the last pew of the expansive Church of the Holy Saints. It didn't take long for them to decide Duffy was the most comfortable - at least he'd dipped his fingers in the holy water and crossed himself. Dolly's eyes were wide as if he was waiting for someone to spontaneously burst into flames.

"Ain't that the understatement of the century." Everyone started at the sudden voice; all hands going involuntarily to their holsters. They relaxed as FBI Agent Paul Smecker sauntered around an enormous marble pillar, hands on his hips. "Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but there's also that little line about 'thou shalt not kill'."

Conner shrugged. "Plenty about destroyin' evil as well. Media can call us what they want. We're not claimin' to be saints."

Smecker raised an eyebrow. "And just hope god overlooks that little piece of work you did last night? You'll have forensics standing on their heads for a bit."

They shrugged in unison. Despite their strong ties to the church, Conner didn't feel remorseful at the new, deadly turn their lives had taken, and he was sure his brother didn't either. "Who's t'say god doesn't have a sense of humor," Murphy countered.

The agent rolled his eyes dramatically. "Meeting in a church? He better. At least none of us has burst into flames as Dolly is so obviously concerned about."

To Conner, the meeting place had nothing to do with their new nickname courtesy of the Boston Herald. He happened to like the ornate, European-style church. Since they'd been forced out of their apartment, it was one of the few places in town that made him feel comfortable. And who would look for a pair of assassins in a church? After all, they weren't the ones claiming to be saints, angels, or anything else.

They were on every corner and at every storefront, vacant eyes staring out from under ratty Santa hats, wrists mechanically ringing that little silver bell. Being a Salvation Army Santa had to be one of the shittiest jobs on the planet. The one slumped on the bench in front of the convenience store looked even worse than most, her blotchy face was burned by the wind and she sipped almost constantly at something it a Dixie cup that had seen better days three years before. She smiled at Conner with the four yellow teeth still left in her head.

He nodded briefly, ducking quickly through the door and hunching his shoulders against the last flurry of snowflakes that followed him through. The ceaseless ringing of the bell continued undimmed even after the door had closed. "How d'ya listen ta that everyday?" he asked, pointing to a pack of cigarettes behind the counter.

"Shit," the man replied, putting two packs on the counter and punching a few buttons on the register. "I can't wait for this season to be over. It's the same thing every year; I'm starting to think I'm that hunchback guy living in a bell tower. Go home and I still think I hear the damn things."

Conner handed over a couple of bills. The guy had a point. Everywhere he went, someone was ringing a bell. "I couldn't do it. They're almost as bad as those Christmas songs." The man handed him a handful of change and he paused to pick out the couple of quarters which were shoved back into his pocket along with the two packs of cigarettes. He held onto the half dozen pennies and a pair of nickles.

Outside, he tipped the change into the woman's red bucket. She roused herself out of her stupor at the sound of change rattling. "Merry Christmas, sir."

He nodded. At least someone was glad to get a handful of pennies, because he didn't have any use for them.