Then an ex-fisherman, an old retiree in a blue coat, his face brick-red (as is the rule) thin because of the few calories in fish but strong enough to pull the nets, had warned them that four armed men were looking for them in the island of Zea.
He had come up at night, when the Chief and Relena were enjoying the rays of the moon, and had helped them to flee towards Candia. And as the Chief was still seeing the water, and the prow of the boat pushing its way through the waves, he heard a shot which shocked the Teutonic ears and covered the fast-food girls’ sudden words. He put out a hand to save the beer for the Teuton at his left. He tried, with the other hand, to catch the forehead of the Teuton at his left. Fruitlessly. It fell on the particle board table.
On rebound, the body jerked. It staggered. Finally, it fell.
In the hall, for an instant, one had the impression that something terrifying had happened.
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