manuscript-day two of 100
 


 

My having an appointment here and now renders the situation odd. Else there would be little wonder in the downtown Manhattan spaghetti joint being perfectly deserted at that time of night. Way past the graveyard shift, uncanny twilight, floor covered by classical black and white checker tile, rows of lavishly upholstered benches, matching diner-style tables squeezed in-between, an enormous mahogany bar in the back, and nobody to be seen.
    A cliché setting not missing its target, bringing home the menacing ambience quite nicely. Just if I would not be nervous and frightened enough yet. Since several minutes—ages, that is—I am standing here, staring into the shadows, hardly daring to move.
    Alas, there is no choice, I have to fathom the darkness to its heart. Maybe they are in another room, well separated from the main area. Some black chamber of conspiracy. Those mobsters are equally fond of cozy backrooms as they are of laying traps.
    Something is wrong in here.
    Within my mind the slightly caustic impression of petrol vapour, pleasant and repelling at the same time, kicks in way too late. Already I have undertaken my first tentative steps towards the unknown depths of the dimly lit Italian restaurant and things start to go horribly wrong. A row of until now well hidden incendiary bombs detonates and sets the ‘Casa di Angelo’ on fire.