London is used to seeing posh, exclusive get-together
gatherings of middle aged men who try to impress each other
with their mediocre accomplishments in life but this one was
slightly different. For one, the dark restaurant, operating
in a damp Hampstead basement, had no sign outside. Its staff
was well trained to keep to themselves and the annoying
habit of pretending to befriend the clientele was not
practiced in that particular restaurant.

There were about 20 of them, all with dark, slim fit suits,
which could hide very well handguns -- although tonight all
firearms were deposited before the gathering began. The
bi-annual meeting of United Kingdom's top hitmen started as
a way for the top-of-the-top to socialize safely. Despite
their secretive work, they were eager to talk; after all, at
the end of a long day they could never share with their
spouse their hardships or events.
 
Very few of them have declined the personalized invite. That
hand-written note emphasized they should come on their own
-- no plus ones. "Be yourself; everyone else is already
taken," it simply said, but they knew what this code
means.

"Have you finished reading Dorian Gray?" asked Mr. Brown.
"Of course, some two weeks ago, on the train to Glasgow.
Personally, I would just murder the old bastard -- we both
know that highly valued paintings worth it," answered Mr.
White, ever so sure of himself.
"And did you like it?", Mr. Brown tried to ignore the
condescending tone.
"Meh. Not much to talk about there -- too much dialogue and
not enough action. Give me a Bruce Willis film any day
instead and I'll take it."
"OK, but I think you're missing out on so many details when
going to the cinema. Which reminds me --"
"--I know, you want to ramble on one of the films you
watched on a plane, right?" interjected Mr. White. "You're
always dropping the fact you've a private jet. We get it."
 "Never interrupt me again," Mr. Brown waved his steak
knife menacingly.
 
At this point O'Brian decided to step between the two men.
"Guys, relax. We've decided to leave agressions outside
tonight, right?" he smiled reassuringly. "Besides, you
shouldn't hold a grudge for that misunderstanding you had
two years ago. You know, you should always forgive your
enemies -- nothing annoys them so much," he winked.
 
Mr. Brown smacked the table with his large hand and faked a
hearty laughter. "Sure, sure! You're perfectly right. Look
at us, getting excited over some old book, heh?" he reached
his other hand towards Mr. White in a gesture of peace. Mr.
White hesitated for a moment and reached his own hand to
make the reconciliatory shake of peace.
"Very good," said O'Brian. He was always a peacemaker, a
critical skill when growing up in the rough neighborhoods of
North Dublin. "Another bottle of wine, maybe?" he suggested,
looking around the table. "I heard the bar here is great."
 
"They do know their stuff," agreed Mr. Brown. "Too bad they
don't have prices on the menu."  
"If you've price for everything, you'll value nothing,"
retorted Mr. White.
 
"Go on, let's move to the heavier stuff. We're all done with
the eating," shouted at him McDermott from the other end of
the table, his strong Belfast accent contrasting O'Brian
softer one.
"Aye-aye", murmurs of consent sounded from around the table.
O'Brian went to the bar to bring a nice bottle of cognac.

O'Brian returned to the table with a nice bottle of Croizet
from 1916. When he noticed how Brown and White were still
not at ease, he placed the bottle gently aside and then put
a firm hand each on Brown and White's shoulders. "Fellas,
give it a break. We get it: you're all big machos, but we're
here to enjoy ourselves, not just to start a fight, right?"
 
At the other end of the table only parts of this
conversation were heard. "A fight?" shouted McDermott,
almost slurring out the words as he was getting drunker and
drunker. "Why have a fight? Surely we can do better. We
fight all day long for our living, for our country, for .
some money!" he roared with laughter, triggering similar
reaction from at least half the crowd.
 
"Look at him, talking about work again," said Mr. Brown
quietly.
"Work is the curse of the drinking classes," added Mr.
White. "Too bad he's such a terrible drinker."
"At least he's not bringing up murders," chimed in O'Brian,
and with that remark the chatter around the room deceased at
once, as everyone was looking at him accusingly.
"Never bring up murder," said Mr. Brown.
"That is always a mistake," added Mr. White, and McDermott
hailed from the other end of the room, "I've never murdered
anyone: one should never do anything that one cannot talk
about after dinner!"
O'Brian bowed out, excused himself to the door, and mumbled
to himself: "we should open an Oscar Wilde book-club
instead."