sure.
At the table were four others beside Corelli. Stanton, the bodyguard; Lucas, the man most likely to replace Hinksman; and two British businessmen who seemed rather cowed and overawed by the illustrious Italian. They had been thoroughly searched by Stanton and Lucas prior to being allowed to sit down. They were clean.
Specific business was discussed over the main course. This was one of the few public places where Corelli occasionally conducted his affairs. Over dessert and coffee they chatted about things in general.
After a pause in conversation, one of the Brits cleared his throat and began rather hesitantly, ‘They say you had three FBI operatives silenced recently.’
Stanton stiffened. He looked quickly at his boss. Was this a subject that could be discussed — or was it taboo? Corelli raised a calming hand, indicating he did not mind. Stanton relaxed.
‘ People say many things,’ Corelli said mysteriously.
‘ If it is true, we are very impressed,’ said Brit number two.
‘ Occasionally the authorities need to know where they stand.’
‘ They were three troublesome people,’ Corelli said. ‘As it happens,’ he went on, ‘I did not have them silenced, I had them executed. ‘
The two Brits laughed nervously.
‘ I was judge and jury,’ Corelli said, ‘and Mr Lucas here was executioner. ‘
Lucas raised a glass. The two Brits felt their anal passages tighten and contract, but managed a smile each.
‘ I propose a toast,’ said Corelli, picking up his own glass. ‘To the FBI and law-enforcement officers the world over: may they continue to be so bad at the administration of justice.’
Everyone laughed and raised their glasses.
No one at the table paid any particular heed to the woman who entered the restaurant at that moment and walked towards them, snaking her way between tables. She was tall, elegant and walked like a model; swaying hips, confidence. Sass.
She was very well dressed in a blouse and tight mini-skirt which showed off her long tanned, shapely legs. She had a green silk scarf tied around her head and wore a pair of dark glasses.
Neither did they pay any attention to the skinny black girl who had been eating at a table with her back to them. Similarly attired to the first woman, she rose slowly from her seat.
The woman who had walked into the restaurant held a small purse delicately in front of her. She went straight up to Corelli’s party and smiled. Her blouse was tight-fitting and made of sheer silk which showed her generous breasts at their best. Her nipples were erect and she was breathing shortly, almost panting, as though she was excited.
‘ Mr Corelli?’ she asked.
Lucas became alert. Corelli laid a finger on his sleeve to check him. He smiled up at the woman, somewhat distracted by the figure. ‘Yes, what can I do for you?’
Slowly she removed her scarf and allowed it to waft gently to the floor. She took her sunglasses off, folded them deliberately and slid them into her bag, keeping her hand inside.
‘ You sent me a letter a while ago,’ she said.
Corelli saw the ravages of the first stages of plastic surgery all the way up one side of her face. He was repelled and his face showed it. ‘And then you killed my man, Joe Kovaks.’
The hand in her purse came out holding the. 32 calibre Smith amp; Wesson revolver.
Lucas began to make for his gun.
Stanton went for his too.
The Brits sat rigid, somewhere in the middle of all this.
The gun in the woman’s hand swung quickly in Corelli’s direction. His eyes widened. He dropped his fork, tried to cower.
Lucas’s gun was partly out. He was very fast.
Stanton cursed. His gun was stuck.
Corelli’s eyes grew wider. His mouth opened to shout something. He had nowhere to go.
Neither Stanton nor Lucas saw the black girl wheel round from her table. Held low in her hands was a double-barrelled sawn-off shot-gun which she’d smuggled in underneath her top coat. She held it like a professional.
The Smith amp; Wesson discharged all six shots into Corelli’s head in rapid succession, the trigger being yanked back in a frenzied, jerking movement. A bigger gun would have caused too much recoil in her hand for full control, but the relatively small calibre meant that, despite the anger, it was easy for her to ensure complete accuracy.
Corelli’s head twisted grotesquely as the bullets whacked into him. One right in the centre of the forehead, two into the temple, one directly through his left eye and the final two in his face on either side of his nose.
The first barrel from the shot-gun took most of Lucas’s head off. The blast toppled him backwards over his chair into the wall behind — already splattered with his brains; the second barrel removed most of Stanton’s right shoulder which exploded as if an ounce of Semtex had been inserted in the joint.
The restaurant erupted in a whirlwind of panic.
Corelli was dead, slumped horribly back in his chair, with the last gasp of air gurgling out of his lungs in dribbling bubbles of blood.
The two women dropped their weapons and walked slowly through the chaos, unchallenged, free, not looking anywhere but dead ahead.
At Corelli’s table, the two Brits, petrified with fear, still hadn’t moved.
