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The bartender brought over the drink. Vlad was nowhere to be seen, as Paul had predicted. Tom’s anger had reduced his observational skills. He couldn’t identify who the players were in the bar. Everyone looked guilty and innocent at the same time.
Focus, Tom, he thought, this isn’t amateur hour at the Hillbilly Hotel anymore. There could be trouble lurking in a pencil skirt or a cheap suit. Real criminals put their vanities aside. The girl flirting with the concierge looked like an escort. The concierge was new, but he was an old man with Italian gestures; safe. The bartender had been put in place by Paul, he knew that. But the dark-skinned guy with the goatee and the duffle coat eating a schnitzel, was he an assassin or an advertiser? And the young man holding a bag full of DVDs from
