The Prosecutor inhaled deeply and said: ‘You lost!’
The famous Mafia Boss wiped the sweat from his neck. This was almost a ritual for him, for he knew that society values a well formed neck more than a well formed forehead. Presently, cornered, he tensely asked: ‘Do I have the right to choose?’
Because he was in control of the situation, the Prosecutor was benevolent: ‘Yes, you have a last choice. You know the qualities of the Lawyers here. You need a strong defence, choose one of them.’
The Boss understood; the Prosecutor was right. He had fought viciously, but his partners were not on the same level and let him down. He tried to light a cigarette, but one of the Cops sarcastically interrupted him: ‘The place is not designed for smoking. And smoking would only worsen your situation.’
The Lawyers laughed obsequiously at the joke. They knew the moment was crucial. The Boss looked at them. One of the Lawyers was sitting on the first row, working with his electronic calculator. The second one was almost grotesque, with the silk bow-tie he was wearing. They didn’t inspire confidence in the Boss. And his Boys, waiting with cell phones in hands behind the fence, couldn’t help him. Apparently, the time for thinking ended, because the Judge, who was the umpire, said: ‘Well, Gentlemen, last game. Take your places, please.’
The players took their rackets and went together to the tennis court, shining like silk in sunshine, to begin the decisive last game in doubles. The victory was very important: it was a matter of honour, but also the winning prize was a full case of Scotch.
© Yasen Kalaydzhiev, 2003