"Here you go…" — he blurted out as the 'wolf' soared to seventh heaven with happiness over the free booze.
"Thank you," I interjected to finish the sentence and get the pourer back on track with his usual customers, whose representative was third from my right, but followed up with, "Don't mind that mark. — He got out from behind his seat a little and showed me a massive scratch on the outside of the counter. — There's a lot of drunks hanging around…"
The spokesman retorted: "You're the one who's drunk! Just a little drink with the guys last night… And, in general… You're drunk yourself!"
"Sit still. He had a drink with the guys … Yeah … You and your guys …"
"Come here, ssssu —" — the drunk interrupted him, grabbing a plastic club that used to be a chair leg and climbing over the counter.
"Stay where you are," the old bartender "dug out" a shotgun from somewhere below and pointed it at the "stormtrooper".
The "diplomat" stood like a stumbling block. My hand slightly opened the floor of my cloak — behind it in a black leather holster hung a Glock 26 (a compact Austrian-made 9- caliber pistol) with a small silencer attached, capable of turning an elephant's roar into a light "Tuh".
"Sit back down… Or you won't get any more drinks" — the fat man turned around, pointing his muzzle at me — "See… What kind of morons do you have to deal with, and you say…" — His speech was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening — the delivery man was moving it.
He came inside with a large aluminum briefcase, as if he'd been kicked in the ass. Although he was wearing what I said he was wearing (gray suit, hat with brim, sandals), he still looked like a liaison, thanks to his sly face.
The courier came to the counter, ordered a "screwdriver" (another flaw, I asked them to order something stronger and then drink it, but after a cocktail of vodka + orange juice
this guy would have fallen down and stopped seeing anything further than his nose, and you still have to distinguish between Godzilla and Cindy Crawford during the "handoff").
"Here's the money," he began, throwing the 'trunk' on the counter and swinging it open to its fullest extent. The two 'outsiders' stared at the contents, even the shotgunner opened his eyes. Either those who sent this clown didn't know he was like this, or they were all like this, but either way it was a disrespect to work with them.
"This is all for me? — I had to impersonate a passing tourist, speaking in a French accent
— Olia-la-la!"
"You asked for so much…" — I had hoped that he could at least move his brain a little and would realize that it was necessary to close the case immediately, solemnly announce that it was a joke and the money wasn't real, laugh out loud and leave, realizing that something was wrong, but nothing like that.
"Great joke! Ha! Ha! Ha!" — I was still hoping he'd be smart, but then the bartender intervened, "Hehehe! Come on… Mother of all… Hands up!"
For such occasions I had made a special mechanism, which worked when I raised my arms strongly, then I fired MSP "Groza" (a small-sized special pistol made in Russia), attached to my right armpit, so that I just had to aim better.
I raised my hands. The gun went off. A small 7.62 caliber hole appeared in my raincoat. The bartender went down, the liaison and the rep froze in place.
Thank God there was no one else in the bar, so I "put" all the muscles in my right arm into the drunkenness, grabbed my briefcase, nodded menacingly to the clown, and left the premises.
Next, my path went to M Pavlova, at the intersection of Legerova and Jecna streets.
(brackets closed).
…I pulled out my laptop and started poking at buttons.
A few moments later connected to "Brosman" (the boss personally blessed us to work together after my release): "Hello, Jürgen, it's Ralf (password open)."
The answer is, "What's wrong?"
"Uncle Rudolph wanted me to tell you that everything is fine. We bought a TV." "We should have been rocking out at the Prague Fall, not at the Vienna Conference flapping our ears (password closed)."
"Freedom is a sweet word, especially for "Pegasus" (in the open, even on the Internet, it is not recommended to have a conversation)"
"Well, Bodyguard will honor her, too." "Papers with him?"
"Yes, take it."
The information "flew" to my computer. I found a little about myself there: the very sent photo (as it turned out it was not one photo, but the whole movie, where I get money from the courier in the bar "Zdrasti", filmed obviously from the ceiling), other intimate photos (1st — as it turned out the whole mansion in Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and 2nd — the hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set fire to Jack's body in a bathtub), other intimate photos (1st — as it turned out the whole mansion in Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and 2nd — the hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set fire to Jack's body.Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and the 2nd — hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set Jack's body on fire in the bathtub), and of course the record of my "clean" interrogations.
That's it. There's more.
All in all, using the findings, especially, of course, in the mansion, you can more than give me the death penalty.
My cell phone rang. "Hello."
"It's Richard. The red lantern is lit in Munich, France is left." "Okay, bye."
This proposal meant that all documents on the Cosa Nostra case in Germany were now destroyed, only the Interpol headquarters in Lyon remained.
Doubtful man
It's not my job to blow up buildings, our pyrotechnician Luigi Costenza will do that. And I asked to get some information on Cave, the man who, according to Norman Robert, who was shot and killed, underpaid me 7 and a half million dollars.
And here is what came out of the archives: Mr. Albert Cave — Italian citizen, real name Vescusi, was born in 1956 in Naples, graduated from business school and moved to work in the U.S., contacted the crime syndicate led by Tom Hopkins and began a rapid rise in the ranks. By the present time is the right hand of the boss of the clan "Long Island Mafia". There is no information about his physical appearance.
I then contacted another source of information to find out whether Albert Vescusi was registered as an Italian citizen. They replied that it takes time to find out such information, but they did not say how long.
Now there was only to wait, first, it was necessary not to get caught in Munich, and, secondly, to wait for them to our "underpayer".
Nine hours later the information arrived, "Albert Vescusi is not registered as an Italian citizen."
Obviously, Vescusi is not Italian, maybe he doesn't even exist, but then who should pay me extra. Maybe it's because Robert got confused and was scared and told me the name at random. But if he was in a panic, how did he manage to make up a person who was in our records but not a citizen? It's all too confusing.
But there is another thread. Joseph Gutgold, living at 15 Westside Street in Boston. Maybe something can be found out in the US, but there's nothing else to go on.
That's some bullshit
Aug 21, 11:57 AM.
To get to America was not so easy: first to get out of Germany (they put me in a secret compartment of a long-haul truck — at the very end of the luggage compartment of the truck is mounted camouflaged room), and then a multi-hour flight across the Atlantic. In Boston, I was met by a man whom I had asked to come in advance to "keep me company". His name was Lonje Amoramente (nicknamed "Lightning" because his movements were lightning fast during the operation).