The first man gave a quiet sigh, leaning back in the old chair. It gave a creak of protest, but went ignored.
"He's dead." The second man said, breaking the silence in the abrupt fashion the first man had long since grown accustomed to. "I got the text."
The first man gave a slow nod. "Sad." He commented, tracing absent-minded circles on the arm of the chair with the tip of a scarred finger.
"Is it?" The second man asked, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag.
"Sure. End of a life. He was, what? Twenty five?" The second man shrugged.
"Still a snitch."
"Still a waste." The second man gave a huff of sound, seeming half amused.
"He'd been a waste for years."
"Would he've been a waste if he'd been snitching to us instead of the cops?"
"No." Came the simple answer. The first man gave a short hum but then dropped silent. Arguments between the two ended in blood and bruising.
He was getting too old for that.