They were two, and they were good—only not good enough for me, although they hadn’t made any mistake.

They behaved like two ordinary young men who were ordinarily and unobtrusively interested in attractive women. So they appreciatively took notice of my very scanty bikini and then turned to the younger people. Each time we met, they gave my tits an interested glance, now and then even my crotch, their erectile bodies showed appropriately interested reactions, and they were kindly smiling. Their talks dealt with women, sports, beer, and cars.

They didn’t talk about the number one topic—the insidious tried kill of an Australian war heroine by US Navy fighters. Why not?

They both avoided even any eye contact with another, older man, and this other man was truly good—without the two boys, I’d never have noticed him.

He played the typical older man who didn’t know what to do with himself, and at the same time nourished no hopes to score with the young ladies with his scarce pension. In this role, he was perfect.

As perfect as I was in my role. I played myself, Johanna alias Velvet, who tried to hide among the vacationers on Mission Beach and at the same time enjoy some dolce vita after the last days’ events. This included the stay at an expensive boutique resort, the regular nightly consumption of male lovers, and the daytime beach chilling.

I could have made an effort to visit him some night and shake him down. It wouldn’t have helped me, because he wasn’t my problem.

My problem was the other perfect hunter, the one the two young men hadn’t known about, either. Until he shot a bullet through my head.