Ciao everybody!

What's this? An update?! After only one day?!

...

Yay! I already wrote this part as well, so here you have it C:

The two detectives are introduced!
Please sit back, und ENJOY.


Ludwig Beilschmidt stepped off the boat, and tread foot onto the Sicilian harbour.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air. Palermo.

He had been assigned for a special case here. The local mafia Boss plagued the city since two years now, and the police was kind of desperate to catch him. Apparently, everybody knew who this Boss was, and what he did, but nobody could ever show up with enough proof to throw him in jail and then drag him in front of a judge. The ones who had proof didn't talk, obviously. The ones who tried to contact the police were disposed of the very same day.

That's why they had called for him.

He had taken a plane all the way to Rome, and then he had taken a ship headed for Sicily. So there he was.

Ludwig didn't know the details yet, the telegram had been short and clear. He would get instructions as soon as he reached the police station, and he would be paired with another detective. But it was too early still, probably around six in the morning. The sun was just appearing by the horizon.

Ludwig inhaled again, looking at the pale pink sky, and picked up his leather travelling bag. He would walk a bit, and then slowly head towards the station. He had to stretch his legs anyway, after the long trip on the ship.

He walked around the many streets, looking at the slowly awakening city. After an hour or so, he went around a corner and found himself in a plaza. And there was a market.

Ludwig's eyes widened. Fruit, vegetables, cheese, meat, fish, chickens, bread, sweets, even hats, underwear and socks. A boy was selling newspapers, yelling the news to the people around him. Powerful and contrasting smells reached his nostrils. Many loud noises reached his eardrums and filled his head. There was everything in that busy and noisy market. Shouts in Italian went from every stall, filling the morning air.

"Pesceeeee! Pesce frescooooo!"

"Fanno dodicimila lire, signora."

"Ma è un furto!"

"Ricordati di prendere anche il pane!"

"Signore! Signore! Non lo vuole un bel cappello? Guardi com'è bello!" a man stopped him while he walked through the lively chaos, pointing to a hat. Ludwig shook his head, a bit awkward. The foreign languages he had learnt had been English, and a little French. He couldn't speak Italian very well, he just knew a few words, and the first phrase everyone learns of a new language.

"Non parlo italiano."I don't speak Italian.

The man shrugged and started yelling again for other clients, looking for someone that needed a hat.

Ludwig looked around marvelling at the busy people around him. His Berlin wasn't anything like this. Obviously, it was much colder, as you could see from the clothes the German was wearing. Long dark brown trousers, a white cotton shirt, a thick jacket, also brown … nothing compared to the colourful and light clothes the Sicilians were wearing. Also, even if Berlin's market was more organized and less, well, improvised, it wasn't as full of good smelling stuff or even as noisy and alive as this one.

He was so concentrated on looking around that he didn't look where he was walking. And he bumped into someone, making that someone fall.

Ludwig blinked, glancing down at the person that had run into him. He had fallen on his rear, and was slowly rubbing his head.

"Owww…"

The person was young, he must have been around his twenties. He had brown hair, while he was wearing a beige suit, with a light blue shirt.

Ludwig snapped out of it, and immediately bowed, offering a hand to the man. "Uh, er…Sorry."

The man's head snapped up and looked, eyes wide, at the hand offered to him. If Ludwig had been more alert, he would have seen some worried glances being shot at him, and the people walking around them in a small circle, avoiding them.

The man blinked a few times, stunned. Ludwig knew he was big and that his face looked intimidating, but he tried his best to look friendly. After a couple of seconds, during which he stared at the German, the Italian smiled and took the outstretched hand.

He jumped on his feet. "Grazie mille!"

Ludwig frowned. "Non parlo italiano…" he muttered, again.

The man looked a bit surprised, but then smiled. "Ah, tedesco, hm? German?"

Ludwig nodded, uncomfortable that his nationality had already been recognized. After the war, no one really liked Germans. He looked around his feet. The man had been carrying two very full bags of tomatoes, and one filled with pasta. The Italian quickly crouched and started picking the scattered and still rolling tomatoes up again. Ludwig thought it was polite to help too. After all, it was his fault everything was lying scattered all around them, right?

The Italian looked with a strange expression at him, when he noticed he was helping him. "Are you a tourist?" He asked.

The German grunted as he stretched his arm to get a tomato which had rolled a bit farther. "Er…you could say that. Yes. I arrived this morning."

The Italian smiled, beaming for unknown reasons. "Oh, wow! Wonderful! Thanks for the help, by the way!" he picked up his recollected stuff and stood up. Ludwig stood up as well. The Italian was a whole head shorter than him, so Ludwig kind of towered over him. That was probably the reason he hadn't noticed him earlier. He however did notice now that people walked around them in a small circle, avoiding them. Italians were less rude than he had thought or heard of them, he assumed.

"Ve, thanks again! Well, I'll be going then. Oh, I've been rude, sorry! My name is Vargas, pleased to meet you!" He said, awkwardly offering him a hand even if he was holding up a bag. The Italian looked him right in the eyes, as if waiting for something.

That sounded like a surname, it was probably custom here to present yourself with the surname first. So who was he to question such customs, even if he didn't like to present himself with his surname? "Beilschmidt. Pleased as well." He shook the hand with a firm grip.

Vargas stopped staring at him, looking kind of surprised, and then his smile widened. He had probably made him happy, by answering right, only with his surname.

"Oh, did you already have breakfast, Herr Beilschmidt? I could offer you one!" the Italian said.

He shook his head politely. "No, but no thanks, I'm not really hungr-"

"Nonsense! It's your first day here and you already made a huge mistake! I don't know about Germany, but not eating breakfast is a sin, here! I'll help you see the light, follow me!" Vargas interrupted him, grabbing his elbow and dragging him through the busy market, ranting enthusiastically like a small child.

Ludwig struggled a little at first, remembering he had a job to do. But then he realized something. His work needed people you knew and that you could trust, to gather information. In West Berlin, actually in whole West Germany he had his fair share of informers. Seeing it was his first day here, and that this Italian, from the looks of it, probably knew everyone in the city, he decided to follow him. He might be a useful contact, who knew? And, to be completely honest, his mouth did start watering when the word 'breakfast' was mentioned.

Vargas leaded him to the edge of the plaza, where many café's were lined up, with white tables standing outside. The Italian put the three bags on a chair, motioned to him to sit down, and ran inside. Then he ran back. "Eh, I forgot to ask… what would you like?" he asked smiling.

Ludwig sat down and put his bag near the table. He hesitated. He had heard of the famous Italian cappuccino…

"A cappuccino?" He asked, not quite sure himself.

Vargas nodded, still smiling. "Oh, and of course, I'm the one paying! You're my guest now, it would be rude if I didn't!" he chirped, and then he ran inside again.

Ludwig shook his head smiling. This Italian really acted like a sweet child. And so polite, too! He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the sun that finally had come up. Wonderful. He took off his brown hat and let it rest in his lap. But he had to remind himself, this was not a holiday.

He had a mafia Boss to catch. As soon as he had finished the breakfast, he would thank the cheerful Italian and head for the police station, where Captain Kirkland was waiting for him.


Antonio Fernandez Carriedo walked around the city absentmindedly. It was still much to early to his tastes. He had travelled all the way from Madrid to the coast, then he had taken a boat to the west side of Sicily, and then a train for his final destination. But said train travelled only at night, so he had arrived in Palermo even before six in the morning, when most of the city was still asleep.

His brown leather bag hung to his right shoulder with a leather strap, and with every step, the bag would softly thud against his left hip. With his hands stuffed in his pockets and the shirt out of his pants, he wandered about the place. He didn't have the faintest idea of where he was, but he knew the police station was near a plaza of some sort. As soon as the city would wake up, he would ask somebody for directions.

A certain Kirkland guy had contacted him for an urgent job. Somehow, the name sounded familiar, he had to be a famous officer or something. Anyway, he had been contacted because of the mafia Boss that plagued the city, and whom the police apparently couldn't throw in jail. Everyone knew who he was and what he did, but there was no proof. Nothing. That's why he was needed, undercover, together with another agent from West Berlin. He himself was one of the best detectives around, even if he probably didn't look like it. He didn't know much yet of this case, he'd have to talk with this Kirkland first.

But it was far too early for him to be thinking about work. He yawned, stretching his back. He really needed a coffee…

He was also kind of getting hungry, so as soon as he saw an open café he headed in its direction. Even if they didn't have churros, an Italian breakfast was good enough for him.

A bell chimed when he opened the door. The barkeeper glanced distractedly at him while making a coffee. There were five people seated all in different places. One was reading the newspaper, another was drinking his coffee calmly, a third was reading a book while smoking a cigarette, the fourth was staring into nothingness without touching his coffee, and the fifth was seated at the bar, on a high stool, head hunched between his shoulders.

Antonio's eyebrows shot up. Such liveliness! Oh, but it wasn't even six in the morning. It was understandable. Even a chair would be more alive and active than himself, normally speaking, around that hour. He yawned again.

He then headed towards the bar, settling himself on a stool not too far on the left from the other person. He ordered a cappuccino and a croissant.

While he waited for his order, he looked around the café. He then glanced towards his neighbour. He hadn't moved a centimetre from the moment he had entered the place. He was all hunched over, elbows resting on the cold surface of the bar, head hanging so you couldn't see his face. He had brown hair, hanging in front of his eyes. Antonio noticed his neat and elegant black suit, with thin grey stripes, and a fedora hat in his lap.

He also saw what the man had ordered. But it was not a cappuccino, not a coffee, not even tea. An almost empty liqueur glass rested near the man's intertwined hands.

Antonio frowned. Drinking already, so early in the morning?

He didn't know why, but he called out for the man. He almost felt sadness radiating from that person in big and continuous waves.

He leaned a little in his direction. "Hey amigo, are you alright?"

The man's head snapped up, as if he had been sleeping, to look at the source of the voice. Antonio immediately noticed a few different things.

First, how young he looked. Younger than him, probably around his early twenties. His face was slightly tanned, contorted into a scowl, and he had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Then, the waves of sadness disappeared, and were replaced by much more powerful irritation waves. Finally, he noticed there were two slightly dark rings under his eyes. Hm, this wasn't an 'early morning' drink. He probably had been awake all night, so this had to be a 'late night' drink.

"Cazzo vuoi?" the man snarled baring his teeth, his voice a bit thick. If it was because of the tiredness or because of the alcohol, Antonio didn't know. Probably both. And the toothpick didn't really help.

Antonio sat back straight again, closing his eyes holding his hands up. He knew Italian, at least enough to communicate, and he had understood what the other had said. 'The fuck do you want?'

"Eh…nothing, just checking if you were alright." He answered in English.

The man glared at him, scanned him from head to toe, and then turned to his glass again. He picked it up and emptied it in one swift motion. "…Why would you fucking care."

"Because you don't look alright." Antonio answered honestly. The barkeeper gave him his order. The Spaniard took the small spoon and moved it around in the warm cappuccino.

"You're not from around here, are you?" The young man asked, still grumbling, motioning with two fingers to the barman at he needed a refill. The barkeeper promptly reacted and quickly refilled his glass with amber-coloured liquid.

Antonio nodded, as he bit down onto his pastry. "Hm-hm! Mm spmnsh!"

The Italian cocked an eyebrow, biting on his toothpick. "Say again?"

Antonio swallowed, croissant crumbs all around his mouth. "I'm Spanish!"

"So you're a tourist." The other said, unimpressed.

Antonio cleaned his mouth with his forearm, crumbs falling everywhere. "…Uh, you could say that. I just got here. Anyway, pleased to meet you! My name is Antonio." He outstretched his right hand towards the other man.

The other did not answer immediately.

"…Vargas." He stated after a whole minute of silence, staring at his now refilled drink and not taking his hand. The Italian however glanced sideways at the Spaniard, looking for a reaction.

"Is that your surname? It doesn't sound like any Italian name I've heard before… oh well! Nice to meet you, señor Vargas!" Antonio smiled, taking his hand back again, apparently unfazed by the Italian's rudeness, before turning to his cappuccino and drinking it all at once. Ah, he immediately felt better, the caffeine was doing its job well. His brain was slowly waking up.

He saw but didn't register the stunned and perplex expression that had appeared on the Italian's face for the slightest of moments.

The Italian had expected a reaction, but not…that one. Vargas regained his composure again.

"…Whatever." He took another sip of his drink.

Antonio put down the cup and looked at the man. The Spaniard had a milky moustache because of the cappuccino.

Despite himself, Vargas snickered, biting on his toothpick. "You look like a complete moron, you know that?"

Antonio's eyes widened. "What? Do I have something on my face?" he asked, clueless, craning his neck while looking for a mirror. Doing so, he almost fell from his high stool.

Yes, this man is definitely an idiot, the Italian thought.

"Take this, dimwit. Clean your damn cappuccino moustache." Vargas said, offering him a napkin.

The Spaniard smiled. "Thanks!" he cleaned the moustache, and looked at the Italian as he took another gulp of the liqueur. "If I may ask… why are you drinking so early?" he hesitantly asked, knowing it probably was a touchy subject.

"Not your fucking business." Vargas snarled, taking another gulp and so finishing the drink again. He motioned to the barman for another refill. "And about the early… it depends from perspectives."

Antonio frowned, finishing his croissant. So he had been right. These were 'late night' drinks for Vargas. "Oh, okay. Sorry if I bothered you." He said, reaching for his pocket for the money so he could pay for his breakfast. But the crumpled paper bills were at the bottom of his pocket, so he had to squirm a little to reach them. He stood up so he could dig better into the damn pocket.

The Italian glared sideways at him. "Leave it."

The Spaniard blinked, as he stopped squirming. "What?"

"I'll pay for you. You probably just have enough fucking money to survive until lunch, anyway." Vargas grumbled, as he finished the whole - third, at least that Antonio knew of - drink in one gulp.

Antonio frowned. He knew he didn't exactly look like a prince, but he did have money! He was one of the best paid men in Europe! He didn't argue, though. A glare from the Italian told him not to.

"…Eh…thanks…" he smiled again, a bit uncomfortable this time. Darn it, he knew he usually appeared like an idiot to people, but that was a useful feature for him. He would naturally appear like a complete fool, so he could gather information more easily and so his enemies would lower their guards, thinking he was harmless. But to also look like a person without any money… he had to find the willpower to go and buy new clothes someday. He glanced at the elegantly dressed Italian. The other people in the bar were all well dressed too. Heck, even the barman looked much better than him. To Vargas he probably appeared like a homeless person. He had showered back in Spain, before getting on the boat headed for Sicily, but the travelling and the heat obviously had not made him smell like flowers.

The Italian nonchalantly put his hand in his pocket, took out a black wallet and extracted a few bills. He smacked them onto the bar. He then jumped off the stool with one swift motion, one hand putting the wallet away and the other grabbing the hat and putting it on his head.

Antonio blinked. For a person who had had an unidentified but probably high number of drinks, Vargas stood straight without apparently any effort. Except for the slight slur in the voice, he would never had thought this man wasn't sober. But maybe the slur was caused because of his tiredness.

Wow, this man probably had a liver of steel.

He then noticed that Vargas was scowling at him yet again, teeth bared while biting on the toothpick.

"The fuck are you staring at?" he snarled.

Antonio jumped out of his thoughts, as well as literally. "Whoops! Sorry. Thanks for the breakfast…" He said sheepishly.

Vargas shook his head sighing. He then headed for the door, followed by the Spaniard. The bell chimed again, and they were outside. The sun was slowly coming up, it probably was dawn already. Antonio looked briefly at the pink morning sky. A lonely star twinkled still.

He looked down again, and noticed that Vargas had disappeared.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, looking around frantically for the Italian. He vaguely saw him, already far away, down the street.

Vargas walked away, hands stuffed in the pockets of his elegant suit, with his head hunched between the shoulders again. An arm got up and waved once, the Italian not even turning to face him as he walked away. "Good riddance, moron." He said, barely loud enough for Antonio to hear.

Antonio noticed the strange walking position, almost like the one of an old man. He waved with his arm too, even if he knew the other would not wave back. "Bye…!" Vargas turned a corner. "Oh, I guess he doesn't hear me anymore… oh well." He shrugged.

He had a job to do.

He suddenly remembered something.

"Oh, man! I should have asked him where the police station was!" He exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead. He had to talk to this Kirkland guy for his job!

But first, he had to find out where the hell he was.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and started walking again through the slowly awakening city.


Oh, if they only knew. :')

I hope you are liking it so far! I like how Antonio turned out, somehow I identify myself a lot in him and it's easier for me to write him... I actually don't know if it's a bad or a good thing...!

See you next time! Ciaoooo! :D

...

(1936 Lire = 1 Euro. But at that time, it was a lot of money!)

Pesceeeee! Pesce frescooooo! : (italian) Fiiiish! Fresh fiiiiish!

Fanno dodicimila lire, signora : (italian) That will be 12.000 lire, miss

Ma è un furto! : (itailan) That's outrageous! (lit. 'It's a theft')

Ricordati di prendere anche il pane! : (italian) remember to get the bread as well!

Signore! Signore! Non lo vuole un bel cappello? Guardi com'è bello! : (italian) Mister! Mister! Don't you want a pretty hat? Look at how beautiful it is!

Non parlo italiano : (italian) I don't speak Italian

Grazie mille! : (italian) thanks a lot!

Tedesco : (italian) German

Herr : (german) Mister

Cazzo vuoi? : (italian) The fuck do you want?