![]() They were in the dead-end alley beside the old Temple of Fortunate Waters the temple's prayer waterfalls could be heard gushing somewhere behind the high plaster wall. ![]() "Fine, just fine," Locke whispered, "but shake me some more. "Can you see him yet? Or Bug's signal?" Locke hissed his question as lightly as he could, then made a few impressive gurgling sounds. Yet if Don Lorenzo Salvara could tell a fake strangling from the real thing in the blink of an eye at thirty paces, they'd badly misjudged the man they planned to rob and the whole game would be shot anyway. ![]() ![]() No genuine Camorri assassin old enough to waddle in a straight line would garrote with anything but silk or wire, of course (the better to crease the victim's windpipe). The rough stuff looked impressive, and it would leave Locke's throat a very credible shade of red. Locke was on his knees, and Calo, standing behind him, had a hemp rope coiled three times around his neck. ![]() This time around, he planned to spend those three seconds getting strangled. LOCKE LAMORA'S RULE of thumb was this: a good confidence game took three months to plan, three weeks to rehearse, and three seconds to win or lose the victim's trust forever. ![]()
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