A basement bar. Low lights. A jazz band in the background. Small groups and couples sitting together at tables. In a dark corner, ALMO sits alone with a soft drink. RONALD enters and looks around. He sees ALMO and walks over to his table.
RONALD: Ah! There you are. Didn’t see you at first. Hidden away in the corner.
ALMO raises his eyes but says nothing. RONALD is about to hold out his hand but thinks better of it.
Of course, of course. Don’t want to make yourself conspicuous. Not in your line of work. So… All set? Can I get you a drink?
ALMO shakes his head once.
No. Quite right, quite right. Need to keep focused. Must stay sharp.
ALMO says nothing.
Good, good. So… You’ll know him when you see him, won’t you? Of course you will. Medium-height, medium-build, brown hair. Glasses.
ALMO takes a crumpled photograph from his pocket, looks at it once and returns it to his pocket.
Pity it had to come to this. Great pity. Poor old Roland. A bit of an idiot but… Things come to an end, don’t they? They run out of track. You’ll make it quick, won’t you? Quick and clean. (beat) Mind if I ask what you’re using? A Beretta? A Luger? A Smith and Wesson?
ALMO signals for RONALD to sit down at his table. RONALD sits. ALMO takes a gun from his pocket and rests it on his knee.
Ah! The bolt-action Welrod. A classic. Choice of the true professional. So silent there’s nothing to hear but the dead man’s death-rattle.
The music finishes. The audience turns to the band to applaud. ALMO lifts the Welrod and shoots RONALD in the side of the head. RONALD falls forwards onto the table. ALMO rises and leaves the bar.