He said:

‘Who isn’t?’

The man gave a loud laugh, far too loud and forced for what was essentially a simple truthful reply. He said:

‘Touche, well said, my learned friend. It means we won’t have to bandy words with explanations, motivations, not that you much care for motive, am I correct in my wild assumption?’

Terry had to concentrate to follow what the bastard was actually saying. He settled for ‘Yeah.’

Truth was, the guy was kind of creepy. You knew if you touched him-and who’d want to? — he’d be ice cold. The guy took out a slim gold cigarette case, extracted a long cigarillo, offered the case, and Terry shook his head. The guy asked:

‘Mind if I indulge?’

Like it would matter

Terry said, letting a slight hint of impatience in there:

‘Your dime, mate.’

The man mimicked.

‘ “Mate.” I like it, gives that working-class zing of authenticity, methinks you have sly humour there, mon ami.’

He lit the cig with a gold Zippo, the clink of the lighter sounding loud and final. He blew out a cloud of smoke, said:

‘Well, to business, you’re a busy man I’m sure, I’ll pay you ten large to… remove the aforementioned chap. Two now and the rest on completion.’

Terry felt it was time to take control, said:

‘Oh oh, I get half up front.’

The guy turned in his seat, let Terry see his eyes, washed out blue, as if they’d been bleached. He said in a tone of pure ice:

‘I don’t negotiate with the help. You usually get five for the whole performance, I’m doubling your fee.’

Terry was intimidated but then moved in his seat, the Browning in his belt giving him balls, said:

‘He’s a cop, a very high-profile one.’

The guy lowered his window, tossed the cig, said:

‘Get out.’

Terry had to decide fast, went with:

‘Three now.’

The guy was staring straight ahead, repeated: