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Then – bam! – some twat in a beat-up truck cuts us off. “Outta my way, you filthy war boy!” I yell, pissed as hell. Nearly smashed the martini glass I don’t even have. She’s cacklin’, lovin’ the chaos, says, “You’re mad, ain’t ya?” Damn right, doll – mad for ya curves and that hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I wink, dodgin’ potholes like I’m dodgin’ Blofeld.

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Finally, I get to the meeting at the local café, La Piazzetta. I’m all sweaty and flustered. I walk in, and the smell of fresh coffee hits me. Mmm, heaven. But then, I see my clients. They’re all sitting there, looking at me like I’m a ghost. Turns out, I mixed up the time. They were there an hour early! Ugh, I could’ve used that hour to chill by the Mera River.

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