Tarantula Read Online Free Page B

languorous, her lashes long and thick. Milton took his glass and touched it against hers.
    “Cheers.”
    “ Salute .”
    She sipped it carefully, watching him over the top of the glass.
    As he drank he became aware that he was being watched. There was a mirror above the bar. He looked up at it discreetly and saw two men behind them. They were sitting at a table towards the rear of the room, partially shrouded by the gloom, but he was sure that they were observing him. He drank a little more and then glanced up again. One of the men had risen from the table and was moving towards the exit. He was slim and wiry and moved with jerky energy. The other man, bigger than his friend, stayed at the table and watched.
    “Signor Smith,” the girl said quietly. “Do you know who owns this bar?”
    “The Camorra.”
    “And you know who they are? What that means?”
    “Yes. My colleague was doing business with them.”
    “And so what could you possibly want?”
    “May I call you Antonietta?”
    “How do you know my name?”
    “I spoke to Mr. Grieve. He spoke very warmly of you.”
    “How so?”
    He smiled, teasing her a little. A pretty woman fishing for compliments? “He said you were very pleasant to deal with. And that you were able to set up the meeting that he wanted.”
    She nodded. Her dark, lustrous eyes flashed and Milton decided that she was very attractive indeed.
    “Do you know what they did to him?” he asked.
    “I do not know the details. They say he was shot.”
    “He was shot. A sniper.”
    “I do not know this word.”
    “A man with a long gun. He was shot from almost several hundred yards away, while he was driving. Near Castellabate. He lost control of the car and drove it into the sea. I saw it on the television and then I went to have a look. It was very well done. Very professional.”
    “And still you come here?” She glanced up at the mirror. “The man at the table. I know you have seen him. Do you know who he is?”
    “One of them, I presume.”
    “He is a soldier. His friend, the man who went outside, he is also a soldier. They are bad men, Mr. Smith. You do not want to cross these men.”
    “Did one of them shoot my colleague?”
    “No.”
    “Then who?”
    “I do not know.”
    Milton sipped his drink and looked into the mirror for a third time. The bigger of the two mafiosi was still there, making no effort to be discreet. There were two possibilities to explain where the other man had gone. He might have gone outside to call for backup. That was the least likely explanation. He could easily have called from the table and, anyway, there were two of them and only one of him, and, what was more, he was not particularly physically imposing. Why would they think they needed more numbers to deal with him? The other reason, the more likely one, was that the man had gone outside to prepare for Milton’s exit. Perhaps he had gone to one of the cars that had been parked along the edge of the road to collect a weapon. A gun, perhaps, or, more likely, the kind of weapon you would use to make a statement. A baseball bat. A knife. Something that would send a message, prevent the organisation that you had just attacked from sending more men to interfere where they were not wanted.
    “Antonietta,” Milton said. “I’m going to leave now. I want you to do me a favour. I assume you are still on good terms with the man you spoke to on my colleague’s behalf?”
    “Yes,” she said, a shiver of tremulousness in her voice.
    “Good. I want you to tell him that I want to meet him. Tell him my employer is not angry at what happened to Mr. Grieve. You can tell him that we’re curious, because we are, but that he can rest assured that we are only interested in profit. The opportunity that my colleague discussed with him and his friends was obviously not attractive enough. Tell him that I am authorised to make it much more attractive. Can you do that?”
    “Yes,” she said. “But, I…” She