Tony Speranza was certainly suffering as he laboriously put on his clothes and went through to the kitchen to make coffee. The resulting brew produced still more suffering, to alleviate which Tony lit an unfiltered Camel, cracked open the Jack Daniels and knocked back a stiff shot. What the hell had happened last night, apart from the screaming match with Ingrid or whatever her name was?
Screaming match. Football match. Of course, he’d been to the stadium to check up on the target’s pals. Photograph them at the bar afterwards with that ultra-cool digital camera he’d just bought, barely bigger than a matchbox. It had taken all the experience of the total pro he was to do so without being spotted, but he’d accomplished his mission. Now it was just a matter of downloading the picture files to his desktop and emailing them to l’avvocato. Only where was the camera? He checked his overcoat pockets, then patted his suit. His wallet and keys, notebook and pen, were all present and correct. But not the camera. And not…
Oh shit, he thought. Oh fuck. Oh my God.
To be honest, Tony didn’t really need a gun. Ninety-nine per cent of his work came from divorce cases, jealous husbands, and keeping tabs on the children of local families worried that their costly offspring were getting into bad company and worse habits. La sicurezza di sapere tutto, sempre!!! was the slogan he used for his ad in the Yellow Pages and on the fliers stuck under the windscreen wipers of parked cars. The work itself was mostly a question of being equipped with the latest surveillance technology, and occasionally putting in a sleepless night staked out in front of the property where an adulterous liaison or drug party was going on. There was almost never any violence, certainly none involving firearms.