Sardinian Blues part 3
Sassari, September 6th
Sunday morning calm.
City almost empty, nice temperature for now , few clouds above.
Having my lazy wake up breakfast at the Abetone, new student/waitresses at the counter, me outside smoking Camels, watching the street, rehearsing last night dinner with Brink.
Plus some unsuspected collaterals about my Italian friend who paved my way here.
Last night: Brink vigilant, kind of edgy.
He urged me to dine with him.
Chose himself an out of hand restaurant where nobody had seen me before.
Just outside he started addressing me in Serbian, his one decently fluent to lmy surprise.
Had to recall his past ops with Florian down in my homeland.
He had a thick envelope under his arm, put it on the table and started his gig,
There’s a contract inside, for the Company.
Signatures, stamps and all.
My very own printed name on top.
Not a bad monthly check.
Legal issues, legal extemptions and that kind of small print addenda I instinctively fear, say I hate.
Never forget I’m gypsy.
Never forget I hate formal restrictions.
Asked him some time to think it over.
He urged me to fill the forms on the spot.
He handed me a safe phone to call Chief Rice.
I called her.
She kind of strange. Blunt.
“Sign it. I provided it for you on my own. No questions needed.”
I didn’t succeed in sounding ironic.
I felt dumb, that’s it.
Brink was kind and specific.
“You’ll do what it’s planned. In any case we’ll pull you out in hours. Just never be framed by cops or their MPs. This might make things uneasy.”
I signed, my own copy will be stashed in a safe-deposit box in three banks on my name.
My one in Palo Alto, two of them in Italy and in France, banks, towns I’d never heard before.
Early morning lull, me sipping coffee while rehearsing all the safe places I’ve set up here in North Sardinia countryside.
People I can get what needed from, items Brink specified last night.
T4. Handgun, two of them.
Two sniper rifles coming up, he said. Serbian made, damn it .
Just feeling framed by my own employer.
About my Italian friend.
I told you I’m dark skinned, I told you I’m a big guy. Sometimes my intimidating presence.
I haven’t told you I’m blue eyed, sort of handsome.
I haven’t told you my father was all American , an Air Force NCO.
He was in Bosnia during the war.
He believed he could do anything he liked with those primitives.
He dated my mom.
He got her pregnant, tried to slip away.
My grandpa Zulfikar caught him, pulled his blue eyes out with his knife. Then his body simply disappeared.
My mom was forced away from the clan when I was five, another stranger, another pregnancy.
Never heard of her since.
Grandpa Zulfikar and grandma Fatmah as my parents.
Grandpa Zulfikar passed me his own knife when I turned eighteen.
Me tall, strong, dark skinned.
Not hard to me to sleep with whatever woman I intend.
Two nights ago I slept with the gray eyed psychologist-waitress my friend was rumored to date back then in his own Sardinian times.
A good night, she not too experienced to weary me.
I asked her about my friend, if she missed him.
To my surprise she said she never slept with him, she said she liked him a lot.
She said she had this strange feeling women have about men.
She said she felt like she had been a cover up for him.
Not he was gay.
He was shady in the deep of his soul.
The said his own heart was pure darkness.
She likes Conrad, I like her but not forever.
I’ll keep dating her now and then.
Brink shows up again.
Mid Sunday morning.
Says first order is to get acquainted with some prostitution ring.
A local ring with connections in Southern Corsica.
He said a top officer in French Air Force base there is involved, has done something wrong.
Feature them upset.
Feature them unable to set things straight, his role, his power.
Feature them really upset.
Time to pull strings on him.
Okey Dokey I said.
Gimme some hints.
Gimme some money to oil the ring.
No problem he said.
Had a ten thousand euro bills in a thick envelope for me.
Start your job he said.
Then plunged in his whiskey routine.
Last table in the back.
Good music as usual.