CHAPTER 15. SATURDAY JULY 25, 23:00.
"Well, I was lying there in bed, feeling really nervous. Terrified in fact." VCR said. "I mean, anyone'd be terrified about getting the snip wouldn't they?"
All the men winced. Belgian even slipped his hand down his pocket and clutched his knob.
"Anyway, I was feeling shit scared. But then the nurse came round and I heard her saying to relax, take it easy, it's a simple op. It's really rare that anything goes wrong."
"Well, it's good she was so caring. You don't always get that now," Caramarin said.
"True," VCR said. "The only trouble was, the nurse was saying it to the surgeon, not me!"
The men laughed. They were standing outside the San Antonio Club on Arkadia Beach. A queue of clubbers stood outside the velvet ropes waiting to be let in. Caramarin lifted the rope for a young couple he'd seen several times before. The girl flashed him a smile of gratitude. He smiled back.
Just another evening until a black BMW 5 with tinted windows squealed round the corner. The three men stopped their banter and watched.
"Bloody drunks," said Belgian.
The car slowed opposite the doormen and the rear window wound down several centimetres; two pipes stuck out.
"Down," Caramarin yelled. His instincts took over; he threw himself onto the slack jawed couple at the front of the queue, hurling them to the ground.
Two blasts roared out of the car, the shots sounding as one. Immediately the black BMW 5 roared off down the street. Caramarin looked as it raced round the next corner. There was silence for a couple of seconds then screams. And not just from the women. As suddenly as violence erupted, it ended.
He stood up and helped up the young woman he'd squashed to the ground. Now some of the queue was running off down the street, others were standing there open mouthed, amazed at what had happened. You know what? They'd have something to tell their mates about later. All added to the reputation of the nightclub.
He turned to his mates. Belgian was kneeling over VCR.
"I think he's hurt," shouted Belgian over the noise of the people.
At that range, there was no way the assassins could have missed. Caramarin stepped over. There was blood on his face. Caramarin ripped open VCR's suit and shirt. Underneath, he saw a bullet-proof vest. It was peppered with pellets.
"Fuck, that hurts, like someone kicked my ribs in," said VCR, "Hurts like a bastard."
"Just as well you had that on," Caramarin said. "Saved your life."
Now it was all over, the San Antonio Club manager hurried out. A short, balding man with a shaving rash on his throat and a twitch in his eye. Saw his non existent queue and his profits disappearing down the road.
Caramarin filled him in on what had happened.
"I'm going to have to look at my security arrangements if this sort of thing is going to happen," the manager said.
Caramarin raised an eyebrow. "You want to take that up with Maiorescu, comrade?"
The manager went quiet. No he didn't want to take it up with Maiorescu.
VCR was back on his feet. He grinned but looked white and shaken underneath the blood on his face. "Nothing broken, I think."
"Look, comrade, you need to get your face seen to. And you don't want to be here when the Militsia come."
"Understood." Caramarin called him a cab – a regular who could be relied on to keep his mouth shut if any questions came his way.
After that it was, as they say, a quiet night.