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Description
They say that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noon day sun. Well, they’re almost right. Although I was raised in England, I’m almost completely Maltese by blood and definitely Maltese by birth. In fact, I was born about ten miles from where I’m sitting now, not that there are any records of my birth. I speak the language fluently, and can find my way around the island without stopping for directions. I can even read road signs that have place names beginning with the letter X if I have to, although thankfully, there are only a few of those.

At this present time, I’m sitting in the blistering sun on the marble platform that surrounds Triton Fountain, just outside the capital city of Valletta. Yellow buses with white roofs bluster by, each one sounding as though it’s about to gasp its last breath. I know better though. These buses aren’t powered by gas, but the sheer indomitable will of the Maltese bus drivers. I’ve seen those bastards fit their buses through a gap with inches left to spare on either side, usually at sixty miles an hour.

A pigeon bobs his way beneath my dangling feet, hoping to catch a crumb from the scalding hot ricotta cheese pastry I’m eating. He’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’ll get anything from me. I hate pigeons. People call them flying rats, but I’d take a rat over a pigeon any day. At least a rat won’t crap on your head unexpectedly. I wave my leg at the pigeon with vehemence, but it just hops back a few steps and then dives under my leg once more, snaring a fallen crumb with it’s pecky little beak. I aim a kick at the little bastard, and he flies away, but not before leaving a present on the toe of my sneaker. I sigh. At least I wasn’t wearing sandals. I have to admit, I’m tempted to send something after the little shit factory, but that would be petty, and a waste of my time.

Finishing the pastry quickly, I lean back and dip the tissue it was wrapped in into the clear water of the pool that catches the jets of water that spray from Triton's fountain. On a windy day, the spray from those jets will give you a cool pleasant misting of water, like a huge humidifier, but today it’s dead. No water jets and no breeze, just baking heat. They turn the fountain off when it gets too hot, to conserve water. With the wet tissue, I wipe away the worst of the pigeon crap from my sneaker, and deposit the now fouled tissue into the trash can a few feet from where I sat.

I guess I should get on with my errands. I have a couple of stops to make before I go on to my meeting.

Taking care not to get hit by one of the yellow speed demons, I navigate my way across to the giant archways that span the entrance to the city herself. Think three Arch de Triumphe’s connected together and you get the idea. It’s always a good idea to head through the center arch, and keep walking no matter who tries to grab your attention. The arches are a bottleneck trap for unwary tourists. Hawkers of various description usually hang around there as it’s the best place to catch trade, going in or out of the city. A new addition are the Chinese women, selling little trinkets that they claim is Jade. I used to date a Chinese girl in the trade. It’s mass produced soap stone. Trust me!

Valletta is an easy place to navigate, as long as you stay on the main street, and don’t go wandering off down any of the little side streets. The city perches on the top of a hill, so basically, if you start heading down an incline, turn around and walk back the way you came. As soon as you hit a wall of tourists, you’re back in the right place again. Never mind the fact that these side streets are the only place you can find shade in Valletta, unless you’re sitting under the parasol of a restaurant table. You can drive in most parts of Valletta, but I really wouldn’t recommend it.

Of course, if you know where you’re going, the back streets of Valletta can be a trove of secret surprises, and I know where I’m going. My destination is a little shop, down several blocks from the main street that you would never guess is a shop unless you knew about it. Don’t ask how I found out about it. You really don’t want to know. Suffice to say that I’m one of only a few people who don’t live on the island who know how to find it. Like most of the buildings in Malta, the shop is made of white limestone block, and is joined on either side by tall identical buildings. I’m sure that was a defensive tactic. I guess if you were trying to invade Valletta, the identical, confusing streets, bordered on both sides by what are essentially thirty foot solid walls would make things a little tricky for you. It’s this outward similarity that lets the shop I’m interested in blend in so well. A discreet mark on the wall next to the door is the only sign that tells you this is the place you’re looking for.

No, I’m not going to tell you what the sign looks like.

I step from the murky shadow of the street into the shop, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness within. A joy of Maltese businesses is that most of them have air conditioning, and this place is no exception. A blast of frigid air sets goosebumps raising on the pale flesh of my arms. I’m three quarters Maltese and a quarter Romany, but I have pale skin, and I burn easily. Try explaining that one. Thank you mother nature!

My appearance obviously confuses the teller. It’s someone I’ve not seen before. I guess Angelo had to get a new guy in. I don’t want to even start to imagine what happened to the last guy.

He greets me in English, and I guess I can’t blame the guy. Like I said, I’m pale skinned. I’m also wearing a ball cap, mirrored shades, a Led Zeplin t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. I look like a tourist.

“Is Angelo here?” I ask him in Maltese, and this makes him jump. I’m not sure whether it’s the fact that I speak Maltese, or that I know Angelo that surprises him more.

He stutters out an apology and leaves me alone whilst he vanishes into the back room. I presume he’s going to find Angelo.

The interior of the shop is plain, just an empty room with a counter. The inventory is kept out of sight, and is only available by request. Not only do you have to know where this place is, but you have to know what they stock before you get here.

A hoarse voice is shouting at the new teller, and I feel a moment of sympathy for the poor guy. Angelo is the type of guy who doesn’t like to be disturbed. He comes through the door sideways and I’m glad to see some things don’t change.

Angelo is one of the fattest guys you will ever see in your life. Well, one of the fattest guys who can still walk on his own two legs anyway. He’s also one of the hairiest men I’ve ever met, a pelt of thick black hair covering him from his bushy beard down. He rests heavily on an ebony cane when he reaches the counter, and leans forward as far as his bulk will allow him, regarding me from the shadowy creases of fat which threaten to close his eyes for him. I see the light of recognition shine in them as his memory of me catches up with what I look like now.

“Mario.” he greets me in his raspy voice. It’s not my real name, and he knows that, but it’s the name I gave him when we met. He respects me enough that he’s not interested in finding out my real name. It takes real skill to earn that kind of respect. Well, skill and a metal stake. “You’ve not been home for a while.”

I shake my head. “I’ve had business elsewhere Angelo.” That’s not his real name either. The difference is, I know his real name, but I choose not to use it.

“Fair enough. What can I do for you?” Short, sweet and to the point. Just the way I like it.

“I need some of your special sandalwood mix.” I tell him. He nods, consigning this to his memory. “Seven bees wax candles,” Another nod. “and I’ll also need a bottle of consecrated wine. None of that shit you sold me last time either. It has to be from the Vatican or it’s useless.”

“Vatican wine is hard to come by.” Angelo says, his raspy voice becoming oily. “I don't think I have any.

With a sigh, I slide my shades up to rest on the bill of my ball cap, and place my hands on the counter. Leaning forward till our faces are inches apart, I let him get a good look at my eyes. Just enough for him to see I’m not in the mood for bullshit. “I know you have some Angelo. Don’t piss around with me like I’m some backstreet dabbler. You tried that last time, remember.”

Angelo’s fat left hand grasps at the wrist of his right arm, rubbing a spot where the coarse black pelt that covers the rest of his body does not grow. There's a bundle of scar tissue on that spot. Like I said, what skill doesn't get you, a metal stake will. “Alright.” he says hurriedly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “I think I have some upstairs. I’ll get Lawrence to fetch it down. Anything else?”

I lean back once more and nod. “Just one more thing.” I tell him, reaching into my jeans pocket and extracting a slip of paper. I slide it face down across the counter to him. The tips of his fingers brush against my own as he reaches for it, and he pulls back his hand as though he’d just touched a live wire. I smile at him, making sure he gets a lot of pearly white. My smile is one of my best features, or so I’m told. Angelo doesn’t seem to appreciate it.

He reaches out for the slip of paper again, and this time, I let him take it without touching me. I watch him like a cat as his eyes read the words scrawled on the piece of paper. It’s a little pathetic that I can tell what he’s thinking when the full impact of those words sinks in. Angelo has never been good at shielding his emotions. The fat man visibly pales, not an easy trick for a naturally olive skinned person, especially one with that much body hair. He starts shaking, the bulk of his body doing a sort of mass ripple that would be hypnotic if it wasn’t so disgusting.

Angelo makes a couple of attempts to speak, wipes the sweat from his forehead once more, and tries again. Third times the charm, as he manages to get the words past his lips. “You realise what you’ve asked for here?”

I nod, once up, once down.

“W...what are you going to do with it? Wait...I don’t want to know.”

I smile again. “No, you don’t.” I tell him, my voice flat, no emotion. “I take it from your reaction that you have the item in question.”

He nods a couple of times. “I’ll have to send Lawrence out. Give me a minute?”

“Of course.” I reply.

Angelo vanishes into the back, and Lawrence gets an ear full of curses that don’t really translate into English very well, but mean a hell of a lot in Maltese. Angelo wouldn’t dare speak to me like that, but he’s the king of his own little castle, so he can abuse his staff as much as he wants. If they knew exactly what half the stuff they had to handle did, Angelo wouldn’t be able to get anyone to work for him, so he pays well, and keeps his helpers stupid. It’s safer that way. I don’t like Angelo much, but he knows his stuff. If he doesn’t have what you need, Angelo can usually get it for you. Of course, he does try his luck occasionally, like the incident with the wine last time I came to see him. I had to give him credit for even trying to tell me he didn’t have any. It takes a lot of balls to try to lie to me more than once.

The sound of a door closing in the deep recesses of Angelo’s back room tells me that Lawrence is now out of the picture. As there are no chairs in Angelo’s shop, I have no choice but to stand. It makes no difference to me, but I’ll have to remind him that the comfort of his customers should be taken into consideration. That’s just good business.

Angelo is gone for maybe fifteen minutes before he returns to the front room. I’ve used this time to replace the shades over my eyes, and hum a couple of my favorite pieces of Puccini. He carries a plain black plastic bag in one hand, and his cane in the other as he shuffles sideways through the door once more.

“It’s all in there.” he tells me, panting a little and putting the bag on the counter.

I trust him, but it’s always wise to double check. I open the bag and make a visual confirmation. “Lets see.” I say to no one in particular, but I know Angelo’s paying rapt attention. “Incense, candles, wine...with the Vatican seal on it this time...good boy Angelo. I lift the bottle out of the way and see the other item, the one wrapped tightly in several layers of muslin. I have no need to unwrap it to confirm what it is. With the bottle of consecrated wine no longer shielding it, I can feel the thing pulsating.

“Everything is to your satisfaction I trust.” Angelo rasps. He’s breathing heavily. I guess the wine really was upstairs. Poor Angelo.

I nod in confirmation. “Thank you Angelo. Payment to the usual account I take it?”

It’s his turn to nod. “Bank of Zurich, yes.” he tells me, although I don’t need him to.

I turn and head for the door. Taking one last breath of the cool, conditioned air, I open the door to the shop and step out into the baking heat once more.

Description
They say that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noon day sun. Well, they’re almost right. Although I was raised in England, I’m almost completely Maltese by blood and definitely Maltese by birth. In fact, I was born about ten miles from where I’m sitting now, not that there are any records of my birth. I speak the language fluently, and can find my way around the island without stopping for directions. I can even read road signs that have place names beginning with the letter X if I have to, although thankfully, there are only a few of those.

At this present time, I’m sitting in the blistering sun on the marble platform that surrounds Triton Fountain, just outside the capital city of Valletta. Yellow buses with white roofs bluster by, each one sounding as though it’s about to gasp its last breath. I know better though. These buses aren’t powered by gas, but the sheer indomitable will of the Maltese bus drivers. I’ve seen those bastards fit their buses through a gap with inches left to spare on either side, usually at sixty miles an hour.

A pigeon bobs his way beneath my dangling feet, hoping to catch a crumb from the scalding hot ricotta cheese pastry I’m eating. He’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’ll get anything from me. I hate pigeons. People call them flying rats, but I’d take a rat over a pigeon any day. At least a rat won’t crap on your head unexpectedly. I wave my leg at the pigeon with vehemence, but it just hops back a few steps and then dives under my leg once more, snaring a fallen crumb with it’s pecky little beak. I aim a kick at the little bastard, and he flies away, but not before leaving a present on the toe of my sneaker. I sigh. At least I wasn’t wearing sandals. I have to admit, I’m tempted to send something after the little shit factory, but that would be petty, and a waste of my time.

Finishing the pastry quickly, I lean back and dip the tissue it was wrapped in into the clear water of the pool that catches the jets of water that spray from Triton's fountain. On a windy day, the spray from those jets will give you a cool pleasant misting of water, like a huge humidifier, but today it’s dead. No water jets and no breeze, just baking heat. They turn the fountain off when it gets too hot, to conserve water. With the wet tissue, I wipe away the worst of the pigeon crap from my sneaker, and deposit the now fouled tissue into the trash can a few feet from where I sat.

I guess I should get on with my errands. I have a couple of stops to make before I go on to my meeting.

Taking care not to get hit by one of the yellow speed demons, I navigate my way across to the giant archways that span the entrance to the city herself. Think three Arch de Triumphe’s connected together and you get the idea. It’s always a good idea to head through the center arch, and keep walking no matter who tries to grab your attention. The arches are a bottleneck trap for unwary tourists. Hawkers of various description usually hang around there as it’s the best place to catch trade, going in or out of the city. A new addition are the Chinese women, selling little trinkets that they claim is Jade. I used to date a Chinese girl in the trade. It’s mass produced soap stone. Trust me!

Valletta is an easy place to navigate, as long as you stay on the main street, and don’t go wandering off down any of the little side streets. The city perches on the top of a hill, so basically, if you start heading down an incline, turn around and walk back the way you came. As soon as you hit a wall of tourists, you’re back in the right place again. Never mind the fact that these side streets are the only place you can find shade in Valletta, unless you’re sitting under the parasol of a restaurant table. You can drive in most parts of Valletta, but I really wouldn’t recommend it.

Of course, if you know where you’re going, the back streets of Valletta can be a trove of secret surprises, and I know where I’m going. My destination is a little shop, down several blocks from the main street that you would never guess is a shop unless you knew about it. Don’t ask how I found out about it. You really don’t want to know. Suffice to say that I’m one of only a few people who don’t live on the island who know how to find it. Like most of the buildings in Malta, the shop is made of white limestone block, and is joined on either side by tall identical buildings. I’m sure that was a defensive tactic. I guess if you were trying to invade Valletta, the identical, confusing streets, bordered on both sides by what are essentially thirty foot solid walls would make things a little tricky for you. It’s this outward similarity that lets the shop I’m interested in blend in so well. A discreet mark on the wall next to the door is the only sign that tells you this is the place you’re looking for.

No, I’m not going to tell you what the sign looks like.

I step from the murky shadow of the street into the shop, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness within. A joy of Maltese businesses is that most of them have air conditioning, and this place is no exception. A blast of frigid air sets goosebumps raising on the pale flesh of my arms. I’m three quarters Maltese and a quarter Romany, but I have pale skin, and I burn easily. Try explaining that one. Thank you mother nature!

My appearance obviously confuses the teller. It’s someone I’ve not seen before. I guess Angelo had to get a new guy in. I don’t want to even start to imagine what happened to the last guy.

He greets me in English, and I guess I can’t blame the guy. Like I said, I’m pale skinned. I’m also wearing a ball cap, mirrored shades, a Led Zeplin t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. I look like a tourist.

“Is Angelo here?” I ask him in Maltese, and this makes him jump. I’m not sure whether it’s the fact that I speak Maltese, or that I know Angelo that surprises him more.

He stutters out an apology and leaves me alone whilst he vanishes into the back room. I presume he’s going to find Angelo.

The interior of the shop is plain, just an empty room with a counter. The inventory is kept out of sight, and is only available by request. Not only do you have to know where this place is, but you have to know what they stock before you get here.

A hoarse voice is shouting at the new teller, and I feel a moment of sympathy for the poor guy. Angelo is the type of guy who doesn’t like to be disturbed. He comes through the door sideways and I’m glad to see some things don’t change.

Angelo is one of the fattest guys you will ever see in your life. Well, one of the fattest guys who can still walk on his own two legs anyway. He’s also one of the hairiest men I’ve ever met, a pelt of thick black hair covering him from his bushy beard down. He rests heavily on an ebony cane when he reaches the counter, and leans forward as far as his bulk will allow him, regarding me from the shadowy creases of fat which threaten to close his eyes for him. I see the light of recognition shine in them as his memory of me catches up with what I look like now.

“Mario.” he greets me in his raspy voice. It’s not my real name, and he knows that, but it’s the name I gave him when we met. He respects me enough that he’s not interested in finding out my real name. It takes real skill to earn that kind of respect. Well, skill and a metal stake. “You’ve not been home for a while.”

I shake my head. “I’ve had business elsewhere Angelo.” That’s not his real name either. The difference is, I know his real name, but I choose not to use it.

“Fair enough. What can I do for you?” Short, sweet and to the point. Just the way I like it.

“I need some of your special sandalwood mix.” I tell him. He nods, consigning this to his memory. “Seven bees wax candles,” Another nod. “and I’ll also need a bottle of consecrated wine. None of that shit you sold me last time either. It has to be from the Vatican or it’s useless.”

“Vatican wine is hard to come by.” Angelo says, his raspy voice becoming oily. “I don't think I have any.

With a sigh, I slide my shades up to rest on the bill of my ball cap, and place my hands on the counter. Leaning forward till our faces are inches apart, I let him get a good look at my eyes. Just enough for him to see I’m not in the mood for bullshit. “I know you have some Angelo. Don’t piss around with me like I’m some backstreet dabbler. You tried that last time, remember.”

Angelo’s fat left hand grasps at the wrist of his right arm, rubbing a spot where the coarse black pelt that covers the rest of his body does not grow. There's a bundle of scar tissue on that spot. Like I said, what skill doesn't get you, a metal stake will. “Alright.” he says hurriedly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “I think I have some upstairs. I’ll get Lawrence to fetch it down. Anything else?”

I lean back once more and nod. “Just one more thing.” I tell him, reaching into my jeans pocket and extracting a slip of paper. I slide it face down across the counter to him. The tips of his fingers brush against my own as he reaches for it, and he pulls back his hand as though he’d just touched a live wire. I smile at him, making sure he gets a lot of pearly white. My smile is one of my best features, or so I’m told. Angelo doesn’t seem to appreciate it.

He reaches out for the slip of paper again, and this time, I let him take it without touching me. I watch him like a cat as his eyes read the words scrawled on the piece of paper. It’s a little pathetic that I can tell what he’s thinking when the full impact of those words sinks in. Angelo has never been good at shielding his emotions. The fat man visibly pales, not an easy trick for a naturally olive skinned person, especially one with that much body hair. He starts shaking, the bulk of his body doing a sort of mass ripple that would be hypnotic if it wasn’t so disgusting.

Angelo makes a couple of attempts to speak, wipes the sweat from his forehead once more, and tries again. Third times the charm, as he manages to get the words past his lips. “You realise what you’ve asked for here?”

I nod, once up, once down.

“W...what are you going to do with it? Wait...I don’t want to know.”

I smile again. “No, you don’t.” I tell him, my voice flat, no emotion. “I take it from your reaction that you have the item in question.”

He nods a couple of times. “I’ll have to send Lawrence out. Give me a minute?”

“Of course.” I reply.

Angelo vanishes into the back, and Lawrence gets an ear full of curses that don’t really translate into English very well, but mean a hell of a lot in Maltese. Angelo wouldn’t dare speak to me like that, but he’s the king of his own little castle, so he can abuse his staff as much as he wants. If they knew exactly what half the stuff they had to handle did, Angelo wouldn’t be able to get anyone to work for him, so he pays well, and keeps his helpers stupid. It’s safer that way. I don’t like Angelo much, but he knows his stuff. If he doesn’t have what you need, Angelo can usually get it for you. Of course, he does try his luck occasionally, like the incident with the wine last time I came to see him. I had to give him credit for even trying to tell me he didn’t have any. It takes a lot of balls to try to lie to me more than once.

The sound of a door closing in the deep recesses of Angelo’s back room tells me that Lawrence is now out of the picture. As there are no chairs in Angelo’s shop, I have no choice but to stand. It makes no difference to me, but I’ll have to remind him that the comfort of his customers should be taken into consideration. That’s just good business.

Angelo is gone for maybe fifteen minutes before he returns to the front room. I’ve used this time to replace the shades over my eyes, and hum a couple of my favorite pieces of Puccini. He carries a plain black plastic bag in one hand, and his cane in the other as he shuffles sideways through the door once more.

“It’s all in there.” he tells me, panting a little and putting the bag on the counter.

I trust him, but it’s always wise to double check. I open the bag and make a visual confirmation. “Lets see.” I say to no one in particular, but I know Angelo’s paying rapt attention. “Incense, candles, wine...with the Vatican seal on it this time...good boy Angelo. I lift the bottle out of the way and see the other item, the one wrapped tightly in several layers of muslin. I have no need to unwrap it to confirm what it is. With the bottle of consecrated wine no longer shielding it, I can feel the thing pulsating.

“Everything is to your satisfaction I trust.” Angelo rasps. He’s breathing heavily. I guess the wine really was upstairs. Poor Angelo.

I nod in confirmation. “Thank you Angelo. Payment to the usual account I take it?”

It’s his turn to nod. “Bank of Zurich, yes.” he tells me, although I don’t need him to.

I turn and head for the door. Taking one last breath of the cool, conditioned air, I open the door to the shop and step out into the baking heat once more.