Abraham Dillinger the Third strode confidently along the corridor towards the Continental Café, enjoying the weight of the bag he was wearing around his waist. Heavy because of the small but powerful pistol he was carrying inside it. His wife, walking beside him, had the same proud look on her face. A look of power and confidence. A look that told everyone they passed that she was not in the least bit scared of them. The two of them glanced at each other and smiled. It was a good feeling.

They passed an elderly couple shuffling slowly in the opposite direcfion. They nodded pleasantly to each other as they passed. I could shoot them, thought Abraham with genuine pleasure. I could take out my gun and put a bullet right between their eyes and there's not a thing they could do to stop me. Not that he would do any such thing, of course. In fact, if trouble broke out, he would probably be willing to risk his life to save them. If some villain tried to attack them, he  could pull out his gun and use it to shoot the villain. He would be a hero. The good guy with a gun who saved the helpless old lady. He would be famous. People would gather around to shake his hand. He might even get an award for bravery from the cruise ship company.

He was so wrapped up in his fantasy as he entered the café that he bumped into a man he hadn't seen ahead of him. A big man with a bushy, black beard carrying a tall glass of beer in his hand. The impact caused the man to spill the beer all down the front of his expensive Luca Faloni shirt, making a large, dark stain on the smooth, light blue. The man stared down at himself in horror, then glared at Abraham in fury. "You idiot! Look what you've done!"

Abraham's hand flew instinctively to his belt, where he normally wore his Smith and Wesson in its full-grain leather holster, but of course it wasn't there. His hand began moving to his waist bag instead, but common sense prevailed just in time and he stopped himself. "Sorry," he said, backing away. "That was my fault..."

"Of course it's your fault!" said the man, stepping forward to glare into Abraham's face. "This shirt cost me four thousand Euros. It's ruined!" He grabbed Abraham by the collar of his shirt and pulled his face towards his. "I ought to pound you into the wall. Teach you to watch where you're going."

Again, Abraham's hand moved by itself towards his waist bag, and again he stopped it. Beside him, he saw Doris reach towards her shoulder bag, where she was carrying her own gun. Other patrons of the café were noticing the altercation, though, and were turning in their seats to watch. To Abraham's relief, his wife also forced her hand away, but she stepped forward to confront the bearded man. "We're very sorry for what happened," she said, "and we will, of course, pay for your dry-cleaning bill..."

"It's ruined!" the man insisted, though. "It cost four thousand Euros..."

"Is there a problem?" said an officer, coming over to join them. "I'm sure whatever the trouble is can be solved without..."

"This idiot spilled beer all over my genuine Luca Faloni shirt," the bearded men told him. "Four thousand Euros down the drain."

"I'd be happy to pay for a replacement," said Abraham quickly. The presence of the officer was suddenly making him very aware of the pistol he was carrying. This could go very bad, very quickly. "I can write you a cheque right now."

"There," said the officer to the bearded man, smiling happily. "You see? Why don't you accept the gentleman's offer, and we can all go back to enjoying ourselves on this lovely morning."

"You think you can just write a cheque and everything's settled and forgiven?" said the bearded man, though. "My morning has been ruined. I was having a good time, and then this happened."

"Perhaps I can offer you a complimentary thousand Euro casino voucher as compensation," said the officer. "And this gentleman has said that he'll recompense you for the cost of the clothing. It was an accident, after all."

"Well..." said the bearded man, looking tempted.

"And we really don't want to make any more of a scene, do we?" the officer continued. "These other people want to enjoy their morning just as much as you do." He waved a hand around at all the other customers in the restaurant. "I can see that you're a reasonable man. I can go get you that voucher right away, shall I?"

"I suppose," the bearded man said, looking mollified. "I've got to go back to my cabin, to get changed. I expect you to keep an eye on these two in the meantime. They owe me four thousand Euros."
"Don't you worry, Sir," said the officer. "I'm sure they wouldn't dream of running out on you."

"I bet they would dream of it," the man said, glaring at Abraham balefully. "He looks the type."

In his imagination, Abraham pulled the gun, aimed it at the bearded man and watched as he wet himself with fear, dropping to his knees and begging forgiveness for being such an asshole. His hand actually moved to his waist bag, and he brought it back under control with an effort. "I gave my word," he said instead. "And I will keep it." He turned to the officer. "Perhaps you could accompany us back to our cabin, where I'll write this man a cheque right away."
"I'd be glad to," the officer replied.

"And I expect to see all three of you back here when I get back," said the bearded man. "If not, the Captain will hear of this."

"We'll be here, I assure you," the officer promised him. He turned back to Abraham and his wife. "Shall we go?"

As they walked, Abraham fumed at the knowledge that the gun had been a positive handicap to him in this situation. In a civilised country, having a gun meant never having to swallow an insult. Here, though, the gun would have cost him everything if it had been discovered on him. If he hadn't had it, he could have punched the bearded man in the face for his insolence. It might have meant some minor charges being brought against him, but it would have been worth it for the satisfaction in would have given him. Instead, he'd had to suck up the man's insults as if he were a child. His hands clenched into fists as he walked. What a stupid, screwed up country, where a man couldn't hold his head up in pride without being punished for it.

As it was, he didn't dare commit the simplest, most minor offense in case it led to the gun being discovered, and if someone told a lie about him, no-one would believe his protestations of innocence because the gun would prove that he was, in this screwed up country, a criminal...

His heart froze with fear as a terrible thought came to him. The two criminals who had given them the guns, they had said that they had business to conduct, and it wasn't hard to guess what kind of business it was. They were going to commit a crime. Steal something, or kill someone. What if they had decided to get away with the crime by framing someone else for it? Someone whose protestations of innocence would never be believed because they would be found to be carrying illegal guns.

Suddenly he was certain of it. Why else would criminals give away guns to complete strangers? He must have been crazy not to have seen it before. They had to get rid of the guns as quickly as possible. Throw them overboard... No, he couldn't do that. He loved having a gun in his hand far too much. It was a part of him. His precious. No, they had to keep the guns. They would hide them somewhere. Somewhere they could find them again when all the excitement had died down.

And in the meantime, what was he going to do about the treacherous, double-crossing crooks who'd decided to throw him and his wife to the wolves? Well, it was obvious, wasn't it? They were planning to betray him. He would betray them first. Teach them they'd have to get up very early in the morning if they wanted to get the better of Abraham Dillinger the Third.

He looked across at his wife, caught her eye and saw fear on her face, as if she'd reached the same conclusion as him. It was enough to allay the last of his doubts. He stopped walking and put a thoughtful look on his face. His wife and the officer stopped as well. "Is there a problem?" the officer asked.

"It's probably nothing," said Abraham. "I just overheard two men talking a little earlier. They said they were going to whack someone. I thought they just meant punch them in the face or something, but then I remembered that to whack someone means to kill someone in Britain. Is that right?"

"It can do, in the movies," the officer replied. "Your first instinct was probably rightly though. They were probably just talking about a minor dust-up to answer a perceived offence."

"I don't know," said Abraham, though. "The more I think about it, the more I think they meant something more serious. There was something about them. Something bad. You know what I mean?"
"Judging people by their appearance has caused a lot of trouble in the past," said the officer, though."

"Maybe we should talk to the Captain about it," said Doris, following her husband's lead. "I think we'd both be a lot happier if we knew there was someone looking into it. I'd hate to hear that someone had been murdered and think that maybe we could have prevented it."

The officer began to look troubled, as if he was imagining a police detective asking him some very searching questions. "Perhaps if you give me their descriptions," he said, "I can ask people to look out for them. I'm sure there'll turn out to be a very innocent explanation for what you overheard."

"I hope so," said Abraham. "Well, one of them was tall, but thin with almost pure white hair. The other was shorter, but broader across the shoulders. Short, dark hair. They were British, to judge from their accents."

"Both white?" asked the officer.

"Both white, yes. Sorry, I should have started with that. The shorter one was wearing a very flowery shirt. Hawaiian, you know?"

"I know," the officer said. "I seem to recall having seen a pair like that. I remember thinking how odd it was to see two men together. Well, maybe not as odd these days as it used to be. I'll put the word out, and if anyone sees them, they'll tell me. As I said, I'm sure there'll be a very innocent explanation."

"I certainly hope so," said Abraham.

Well, that was it, he thought. He'd done what he could. They would hide the guns, for a while, and if someone turned up dead and the villains sent an anonymous tip blaming them, the officer would remember what he'd said. He, Abraham, would hardly warn him that a murder was going to be committed if it was he, Abraham, who was going to commit the crime. They were safe, and the two villains would get their just desserts for trying to betray him.

The thought cheered him so much that there was almost a spring in his step as they went the rest of the way to their cabin, and Abraham wrote the check with a smile on his face.