The Pro lay on his belly three floors up ... fishing.

Fishing's an art that requires much patience and no little skill. The Pro could hook a trout from five storeys up, no sweat. But today he was feeling lazy ... three floors.

Ren said it was too close. Ren said the gadjikanes would varda him and then the sharpies would get him too easy. But then Ren always sang those mulengi djilias. The Pro was small. He was fast.

A likely mark was trolling down the street. A dox .. done to kill ... with a little spangly bag ...

Carefully, carefully he lowered the line with its sharp hook ... down ... down ...

Past the first level ... just as the dox came into reach .... careful to keep it out of line of her lovely big ogles. No way would she varda him ... no matter what Ren warbled.

Lower ... lower ... anyone taking a gander of the first floor window would see an odd barbed hook sinking down .... down ....

So close now ... and the dox had stopped to varda the bolta window ... as he had guessed she would ...

closer ... the hook grazed to strap of her bag ... closer .....

"'lo Pro,"

The Pro jerked the hook up - fast ... the bag listing dizzily with it.

Two seconds and it was in his hand ... another two and he had stripped the valuables, replaced them with a stone, and dropped it
back over the edge ...

"Nice drop, Pro," said Blade. "Straight into her arms."

"Fucking khul ... " the Pro growled, scrambling to his feet. "You fucking karbaro ... I meant to knock her cold ... "

"I've got the metza," he said urgently, as Blade still lingered. "Fucking come on ... we gotta vamooze. The fucking sharpies, wortacha!" He grabbed Blade by the collar and ran him, big as he was, the approved route across the roofs to a gaff - not below; Ren had trained them about that since they were feeles. But a safe gaff to stash their swag.

Now Blade lay panting, and the Pro wiped his own face.

"I need a tinnie," he complained. "'Member how Malay used to slip us a tinnie in the dunny? Hang 'em in the water ... get 'em good and cold when we collected."

He brooded. "Reckon Malay bought it?"

"I reckon he was rased," agreed Blade. "Those trushal odjis after him ... they wanted him bad ..."

The Pro nodded glumly.

Suddenly there was a bang at the door of the gaff. Both started, reaching for their blades.

"Sharpies?" whispered Blade.

The Pro shook his head. "Nah .. feeles ... trying it on, innit?"

But it weren't no feele. Johnnie slid into the room.

"Reckined I'd find you here," he said. "Fucking khul, Pro, you porado, the street's crawling with sharpies."

The Pro grinned. "Got the metzas, though, innit?" he said, showing the wodge of notes.

Johnnie spat. "Fuck that ... you gotta know. Clon's been rased."

"Clon?" the Pro jumped to his feet, his pale eyes blazing. "What johai did that?"

"I don't fucking know," responded Johnnie. "But I reckon ... we need to talk to Al."

"The bulibasha?" the Pro looked at him. "You reckon?"

"I reckon the manush need to come together for a divano," said Johnnie. "And the bulibasha's the fucking phal we need to do that."

(n.b. the brad language is mostly Romany, partly Australian slang and partly Polari)