And two-weeks later he was dead... by an accidental bullet fired from Link Morgan's rifle." That sonofabitch... he'd probably even cheat at Monopoly!"...Steve Foster derided, lighting a cigarette.Mark couldn't help but snicker at the remark. "You write too much crap for that expose mag you work for, Steve." Maybe... maybe, but I know a lousy crook when I see one... if that gentle term can qualify such a filthy looking bastard." The slender, bearded writer returned, pulling a note-book and pencil. I was wearing a dinner jacket and black bow-tie, she was wearing a simple pale gold, long dress which even to my untrained eye looked Haute Couture and very expensive. We were sitting in a little bistro in a side road just off Oxford Street and no one gave us more than a casual glance. That was London for you. Our talk was about the past and how we got to this present. I was particularly interested in her being a ballerina. ‘I didn’t know you were doing that.’ I told her. ‘Becky knew. Didn’t. More

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