and firing into the air. The second bodyguard was behind Ruskin but ten meters away: his training was in karate and he knew from bitter experience that assassins are better living than dead. He cartwheeled dramatically over the one table that was in his path before landing heavily on Ruskin, feet first. As he fell he pinched the schoolboyâs neck and shoulders between his legs, locking his feet in the famous âKiss of the Scissors.â The third bodyguard unloaded his machine gun, raking the doors and windows just above the heads of Millie, Sam, and the head waiter. The explosions of glass had just the desired effect: everyone dived to the ground and lay still, hands over their heads.
Amazingly, nobody screamed. The shock was so total that apart from the orgy of breaking glass, the whole drama was performed in silence. Andreas Sanchez was the one to break the silence. Luckily for Ruskin, his purple, suffocating face was just in the boyâs sightline, and he said simply: âHey! Itâs my friend! Itâs Ruskin!â
*
Emilio Esteverre Sanchez was not a man to feel foolish and a millionaireâs sense of humor tends to be contagious. When he started to laugh, the other guests started to laugh. Gunfire was not unknown in Bendersâthe waiters took it in their stride and a case of champagne hastily distributed round the other tables soon greased the wheels of apology. Like a scene change in a fast-moving play, tables were righted and relaid; brooms swept away debris with lightning efficiency; and Ruskin was soon in a chair, head between his knees.
â ¿Qué pasa? â said Mr. Sanchez to his son. He switched to Colombian-Spanish when speed was essential.
â Es un buen amigo, padre .â
â El gordito! ¿Un amigo? â
â Si! Empezó el trimestre pasado, como yo. No harÃa daño a una mosca, es un caballero! â
â Ai, soy un idiota! â
Sam and Millie looked at each other, wondering if they really had entered a movie. Guns were replaced in shoulder holsters, and a man was babbling into a walkie-talkie. A pianist appeared and started to play.
Millie said: âWhat the hell is this?â
âI donât know,â Sam replied. âBut I think thatâs the boy I was hearing about.â
âRuskin,â said Sanchez. âYou never met my father! Come and meet him.â
Jacob Ruskin looked up but couldnât focus on very much. He was helped to his feet. Hands dusted the dirt and glass from his blazer, and a chair was thrust under his backside.
âMr. Sanchez?â panted Ruskin. âIâm so sorry I disturbed your meal.â
Mr. Sanchez erupted in laughter. âLook at this!â he shouted. âDoes anybody believe this, eh? He comes all the way to see my son, to say hello, and what do we do? We nearly shoot him in the head! How many lives you got, my friend?â
âI donât know. One less, I suppose!â
âOne less, he says!â There were peals of laughter. âThank Godâimagine! Only, no, letâs not even think. Again, you see, God is watching. And friends, more of them. Look, join us here. Everybody, come and eat. Sit!â
Introductions were made. Hands were shaken and cheeks were kissed. The language rippled from English to Spanish and back to English; suddenly there was champagne in everyoneâs glass, and Ruskinâs proper color slowly returned.
âSo you mean,â said Mr. Sanchez, âthis is a total coincidence, uh? Absolutely no plan, no rendezvous? And you the boy I wanted to meet, you the very good friend of my son, the one who is looking after him?â
The laughter rose up louder still and spread, it seemed, to other diners. The pianist grew hysterical in his playing.
âListen, all of you,â he said. âSammy, and . . . whass your name? I forget, Iâm sorry . . .â He was looking at Millie.
âMillie,â