"This guy," said the middle-aged man looking through a set of binoculars, "is an idiot."
The three partners were on the upper deck of a dilapidated and long-unused parking lot overlooking a bustling city street. A handful of stories down and on the opposite side of said street was a trendy Cuban café that apparently housed the individual to whom they were referring.
"He tried to cross Michael," said the woman matter-of-factly. "Of course he's an idiot."
"Fiona," said the younger man, stepping in between the two and on some overgrown weeds jutting out from between cracks in the cement, "I think Sam was just trying to say that only an idiot would come back to the restaurant where he met the man that he very, very recently tried to kill."
"I suppose that's fair," said the woman, shrugging.
The older man lowered his binoculars and glared at the woman. "Of course it is, being that it's what I said, Fiona!"
"No, it's not, Sam." she said slowly. "There is clearly a distinction between what-"
"Can we not do this and get some work done, please? We need to work. Let's work." The voice the man spoke in seemed to imply that he was used to the conflict and was offering (or perhaps commanding) an alternative.
The older man, now dressed in a black business suit rather than the relaxed tourist wear of the previous outing yet still equipped with the same pair of sunglasses resting on his forehead, rolled his eyes. The woman, just as sharply dressed, ignored him. It was difficult to discern whether the two were in the middle of genuine turmoil or were merely putting on and did it out of a perverse enjoyment of annoying their mutual friend. Regardless, they ceased their bickering and focused their attention on the job at hand.
"Heeey," said the younger man in the Armani suit, checking a pricey-looking watch. "It's time. I'm still not sure whether he's looked into us and gotten your names and faces," he said, gesturing for the binoculars from his friend, "but judging by the perpetually blank look on his face and the stunning genius he's displayed so far..." (Marcello could be seen sitting at a small round table outside of the cafe, hitting on an attractive waitress and undoubtedly making crude advances that were ended promptly when said waitress none-too-gently stomped on his foot) "...I, uh, I don't think that it'll be much of a problem."
"Rest assured, Mikey" said the older man through a mischievous smile, patting the outside of his jacket in reference to the concealed weapon tucked within, "It won't be a problem either way."
For once, the woman agreed. "If anything unexpected happens, we'll just have to switch things up a little."
"How about we just hope that there aren't any surprises waiting around, all right?"
"Fine, Mikey. Fine."
"Whatever you say, Michael."