It had been easy to get to London, as he was in the metropolis already. getting new clothes was easy as well, "borrowing" them from a a backyard court. A little more complicate exchanging the euros in his pocket into pounds, and finding the right underground ride for the City.
He had a name, though... a friend of a friend of his father, that each summer returned to the small town in the Italian Appennines... and luckily enough he found the name on the telephone guide, and in no time he was at the man's restaurant.
Just, what he found was not really what he hoped for. Not a small job as a waiter, waiting for better times. It was a photo on one of the internal pages of the Times, under a title: "Italian ranger slays two US Marines". But the man did not call the cop. "I am sure you had your good motives, Edo" said the man, and gave him a name. "Mickey the Pig. It's a small gangster. He knows how to let you disappear for a while".
Mickey the Pig was a slimy short man. "I have the place, but it will cost you a lot".
"I don't have much money" responded Cicciotto.
"I will teach you how to get it" responded Mickey.
The place was dirty and small, smelling of rat's urine and decades old dust, but the presence of a light bulb was all Cicciotto needed.
Mickey went away, and Cicciotto closed the door behind him, locking it with the key.
It passed the whole of a day, when the door was kicked inside, and an heavy built man in a rugged trench-coat came in. His piercing eyes panned over the body of Cicciotto, resting on his face. The man seemed relieved, like he was expecting something more menacing.
Out of a pocket of the coat Edulcore spotted the Times, folded on the page with his photo.
"Edulcore Cicciotto, although I can't say I am sorry for what you did, you haven't been nice with George W. boys, and now Tony Blair wants to give your head as a present for his buddy." Said that, he pointed his big gun to the Italian, and waved it toward the door.
Cicciotto raised his hands. "What time is it, sir?" was just what he asked.
The intruder, the ex-cop by the name of Dancer, seemed surprised by the question. "Are you not going to oppose resistance to the arrest?" he asked, and from the tone of his voice he seemed nearly sad that there was not a fight.
Cicciotto looked at the man. "No. Should I?"
Dancer shrugged. "Pansy" he whispered, grimacing.
Pushing the barrel of the gun between his ribs, the ex-cop led Cicciotto outside the small flat, an half underground apartment, to leave which you had to step over a small stair to get to the road level.
Stepping up, the eyes of Dancer where caught by the alien sight of the second, full moon rising above the roof line, just below the true moon, with the crescent at his first quarter.
"Strange, eh" said the cop, but no answer came.
The barrel was pointing in the air, as Cicciotto had completely disappeared. Dancer stood in the middle of the street, looking frantically at both ends, but there were no sign of the Italian. Only then he did notice a strange, lupine form running and jumping madly over the roofs.
