Rimanoa

Change of plans

11:14 p.m. July 21.

"Where are we going?" — Giuseppe asked me as the back door of the Skoda Fabia slammed shut.

"To the pay phone," I replied and thought. — One more incident like this and I'm going to be a total paranoid freak. No, seriously, I can't even walk into a regular bar anymore. Or maybe I'm just getting too old for this job…"

We drove down Wilsonova Street, turned left, stopped, and the chauffeur's upraised hand showed me a pay phone.

54 year old Garibaldi is our 4th level employee in Prague (under the supervision of Jean Carlo LaScoltz ("Ambassador" of the Family in the Czech Republic)). A long time ago he worked as a cab driver, but after accidentally saving the life of one of our higher-ups, he joined the organization, went where it was "quieter", and now he drives people like me around the city. From the point of view of work, he was perfect: he didn't know much, didn't want to know much, had no memory for faces and names… And what else does a good driver need but good driving with good knowledge of the city — nothing.

"Hello."

"This is Faust (my call signs in the underworld)." "You're in Prague?"

"Yes."

"When by the way did you pri…" "Weren't you warned I was here?" "No, why?"

Robert Emerson was talking to me, you could understand it not even by his poor pronunciation (he could hardly speak Italian), but by his "smart" head (no one really had to know that I was in the Czech Republic), it's not clear how he got to Koza Nostra in the first place, perhaps because of an old friendship, though I doubt it — hell knows. "Yeah, nothing," I smiled into the phone.

"So. The Ambassador is sick…" "That's a real problem…"

"Yes. And we have a meeting…" "With who?"

"Some Morten…"

"Morten? The butcher who (with my dog job I managed to keep my sense of humor)?" "I don't know… Maybe…"

"So, what does he want?" "Meet…"

"That's it?"

"I don't know…"

"Ah…" the cell phone rang, "Okay, bye. "But…"

I hung up the phone, stepped out of the booth, and moved toward the car. "Hello."

"It's Richard."

Richard "Lionheart" (we all have weird nicknames) was sort of my personal dispatcher and his call was almost always a sign of a change of plans.

"What?"

"The ambassador is sick…" "That's news."

"He was supposed to meet with some goods carrier (felons talking on the phone sometimes resembles the chatter of toddlers in kindergarten)."

"Let me guess, he can't get out of bed and you want me to replace him…" "Yes."

"Where? In bed?" "No, at the meeting…"

Despite the fact that Richard had never killed anyone, he had no sense of humor at all. "Where do I have to go?"

"The ambassador will tell you himself. Everything." I turned my phone off.

"To the Ambassador, Jos."

"Whatever you say (he never argued, he just liked to ride)."

After getting a chance to sleep, I laid my head back on the seat and closed my eyes.