The American wanted to exhale and show annoyance. But he didn’t.
‘Let me paint a picture… I now have forty retail outlets in the US, in shopping malls from Orlando to Memphis, right across the panhandle. Forty,’ he reiterated. ‘I already supply over two hundred more right up the eastern seaboard. This time next year, I’ll have sixty outlets and be supplying two-fifty more. I need good quality merchandise at cheap prices. The market snaffles them up like vultures, credit crunch or not.’ He spoke earnestly and persuasively.
Marini nodded. ‘And my percentage?’
The American sat back and considered the question, as though he didn’t know the answer already. ‘A thirty-three per cent mark-up, which is good. And don’t forget, we’re talking a lot of output here.’
Marini’s head nodded from side to side thoughtfully.
‘And I can start selling as soon as you start providing — but I cannot wait forever.’ He scooped up more paella and chomped it noisily, savouring it. ‘This is excellent,’ he said.
Marini went into deep thought. This venture could be his making, his break from the constraints of the past. He hadn’t rushed things, done it all very slowly and carefully. Built up his contacts, spoken quietly to people he thought were disaffected and downtrodden, and now he was ready to move. Trusted allies surrounded him and all he needed to do was strike the blow that would release him. His dark eyes glistened as he imagined the future of power and wealth in the palm of his hand, which would also help to crush his rivals who had been getting out of hand recently.
Even so, that profit margin could be higher.
He nodded finally and, stone-faced, he said, ‘It needs to be thirty-seven per cent.’
The American didn’t actually care. Marini could have asked for fifty per cent. However, for the sake of appearances and not to raise suspicion, he would not go over forty.
He mulled over Marini’s demand as though it mattered — then he nodded.
‘We have a deal.’
The men reached across the table and shook hands, and for the first time their faces cracked into grins. The other two men breathed out with relief, also, and the American offered his hand to them. Marini beckoned the waiter across and ordered champagne.
‘You won’t regret it,’ the American promised. ‘This is the start of something very big… yeah, sounds corny, but it’s true… now, Jeez, sorry guys, I need to pee again… if you’ll excuse
…’
Marini waved him happily away, still doing the sums in his mind. Immense amounts of money. He leaned to the man who gave him advice for an ear-to-ear whispered conversation. There was much nodding and agreement and shoulder touching.
‘Many people will be glad of this, but there may be some personal times ahead.’ They were talking in Italian now, having conversed in English all night for the American’s benefit, who, though of Italian blood, hardly spoke a word of the mother tongue.
‘You will need to be strong,’ the adviser cautioned.
‘I know — but with you beside me, we can surmount the attrition.’
They clapped each other’s shoulders again.
‘Success!’
Marini raised his champagne glass as the American returned from the toilet.
Just then, the same Lexus four-wheel drive that had trundled past earlier, cruised by again. This time the men tensed up, lowered their glasses. Paulo rose slowly from his seat, his right hand snaking underneath his jacket to reach for the pistol tucked into his trouser waistband at the small of his back.
The Lexus stopped.
Marini began to rise now, his instincts clicking in.
Then the front passenger window opened smoothly to reveal the face of the guy sat there.
‘Hey fuckers! When you coming to my club?’ the big, round-faced Russian bawled.
Marini relaxed, gave the guy a wave.
‘Girls queuing up for you all!’
‘An hour, give us an hour,’ Marini said after consulting his watch.
‘Yeah, yeah — beluga on ice, vodka on ice, girls on heat.’ The window slid back up and the Lexus jumped forwards quietly.
The American was still standing. ‘Jesus,’ he breathed.
‘Yeah, man, I thought I was back in Napoli for a moment,’ Paulo laughed nervously, his hand coming back into view and sitting down with relief.
Marini covered his nerves with a hand gesture telling everyone to keep cool. In Naples, eating al fresco meant having men up and down the street watching for danger. ‘Just the Russians trying to shit us.’
They all laughed.
The American was still on his feet.
Marini looked up at him. ‘You sitting, or what? C’mon, chill. Discussion time… a deal to make.’
The American had spent his time with the three men carefully weighing them up. Paulo being ordered to search him had been a good thing. It meant that finding nothing had put him off guard and also that by getting so close to each other in the toilets, the American had been able to brush up against him and make a judgement about his fire power. The passing of the stupid Russian just confirmed what he already knew: one gun, a pistol, probably a Glock in the waistband
… a knife in the jacket pocket.
Having assessed the other two — meeting them earlier, shaking their hands, patting shoulders, being effusive, touchy-feely, told him that Marini was unarmed and that the adviser was armed similarly to Paulo.
It was going to be a big kill, but it had to be done.
He actually thought about giving some sort of retort to Marini’s remark about the deal, saying that, actually, the deal was off… but that was the kind of silly display that shaved valuable seconds off your time and gave people the opportunity to react.
Instead, he moved fast and picked his moment with precision — the seconds just after the Lexus had disappeared.
All three had had a surge of adrenaline — was this going to be a drive-by shooting or not? Each would still have that bitter taste in his mouth: fear. But it was short-lived and as soon as the possible danger had passed, they were all telling each other to relax, cool down, remember where we are — in a foreign land where they were safe. Internally their bodies were also telling themselves that, too.
The American moved as Paulo made himself comfortable, as the adviser shook his head at their stupidity, as Marini reached for his glass and the bottle of champagne.
The gun had been left for him by another guest at the restaurant. He did not know who, didn’t want to know, but who had been into the toilet just after he and Paulo had left following the body search.
He was standing at ninety degrees to Paulo, who was first to go.
The American’s hand appeared from underneath his jacket holding the pistol. He hadn’t checked it. He’d been told it would be ready for use: one bullet chambered, safety off, gun ready to fire.
The move was smooth, seemingly unhurried.
He touched Paulo’s temple with the muzzle and squeezed. The noise was deafening, disorientating, as it was meant to be. Paulo’s brained splattered all over the chest of the adviser who, stunned, looked down in disbelief as though someone had just spilled a beer over him.
But he had no time to consider further because as he started to move and react properly, the gun swung at him, was fired. The bullet entered his head through his right eye, twisted sideways and exited through his left temple like a rocket tearing through a warship, the exit wound enormous.
All due credit to him, Marini moved quickly, and threw himself off his chair, starting to scurry-crawl desperately away, but the American shot him in the back of the head, and the exit wound removed most of his face.
In seconds the American had stepped around the table and put another bullet into each of the men, even though in his heart of hearts he knew they were dead, but he was paid not to make any mistakes and a man in a coma can always wake up.
Then he allowed himself his little quip.
‘Deal off.’