A Pimp's Notes (12 page)

“No names over the phone. Mine is sufficient.”

The voice concedes something that perhaps in another context would have prompted quite a different reaction.

“As you think best.”

“Very good. I’ll arrange to supply you with what you need.”

I hang up. I don’t need anything else. I know the address, even though it’s my policy to forget an address as soon as I’ve used it. I sit back down, to smoke and think back to my one
non-
meeting with Lorenzo Bonifaci.

I was sitting at a table with two girls, Jane and Hanneke. Two models, one American, the other Dutch. They had traveled to the Bel Paese wearing patched jeans, seeking their fortunes in the world of fashion. After various vicissitudes they found me. I don’t know if I could be considered a fortune, but I was something very close to it, in practical terms. They had family, back in the Netherlands and Tennessee, who were living much better now, thanks to that meeting. It might not have been
Miracle in Milan
, but it was certainly a piece of dumb luck.

All around us, inevitable signs of summer, were the characters and the tourists of the eastern stretch of the Italian Riviera, the faces that populate the Covo di Nord Est in Santa Margherita and the Carillon in Paraggi, where we were sitting.

The food was good, the wine was cold, and the girls were pretty and high-class. I was thinking to myself that at times fate offered me some very nice palliatives. A man had come over discreetly and was now standing by our table.

“Are you Mister Bravo?”

He spoke Italian with a slight British accent, which justified that
mister
.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“If I’m not intruding, I wonder if I could speak with you.”

He smiled at the girls and then turned to me once again.

“Alone.”

That impeccable gentleman in a dark blue linen suit smelled of Eau Sauvage and money. The cologne was French. As for the other scent, any currency was eminently acceptable.

I presented a guileless face of pure innocence to my two friends.

“Girls, why don’t you go check your makeup while we’re waiting for dessert?”

Hanneke and Jane understood that they were to leave the table so that we could put them at the center of attention. They got up and headed off toward the bathroom. The man sat down in the chair left vacant by the American girl.

“My name is Gabriel Lincoln and I work closely with a person who isn’t here now, but who was when you and the girls came in.”

I looked at the man with the pale skin and the fine hair, waiting for the rest.

“This person was particularly impressed by the attractiveness of your two friends. Right now he’s on board his yacht, which is moored just across the way, and he’d be very pleased, after dinner, to invite you all over to enjoy a glass of champagne.”

“Could I know just who this person is?”

I’d spoken low and slow on the last three words, just to make it perfectly clear that I found mysteries to be annoying, not alluring. With a half smile, he launched the missile. Which completely demolished my little red wagon.

“Does the name Lorenzo Bonifaci mean anything to you?”

I’ll say it meant something to me. It meant steel and glossy magazines and banks and a few gazillion lire. But it also meant direct, behind-the-scenes power and, save for a few isolated episodes, a quiet life out of the spotlight, a name that never appeared in the gossip sheets. Just having been in the same place at the same time as him could be considered a privilege.

“Certainly. I need no further elucidations.”

“Then you’ll come?”

“Mr. Lincoln, I think we can both consider ourselves men of the world. Am I in any way out of line or offensive when I venture to say that my presence might be considered unnecessary?”

“Neither out of line nor offensive. Quite simply a display of savoir-faire which would be viewed in the most favorable of lights.”

“Well, just consider my two young friends to be on board the yacht as we speak, champagne glasses in hand.”

And their panties around their ankles …

For obvious reasons, I chose not to actually utter this last thought. He looked at me with some curiosity but then slid into a moment of awkwardness.

“I imagine, from the things I’ve heard about you, that there might be a financial consideration to discuss. I want to assure you—”

I held up my hand to stop him.

“No need for assurances. Please consider this visit aboard the yacht, especially when prefaced by such a courteous invitation, as my own personal gift to Dottore Bonifaci.”

Lincoln ducked his head to express his appreciation and pleasure.

“This gift, as you call it, will be most welcome. May I beg to hope that it will be accompanied by your two friends’ complete and absolute discretion? Concerning your own discretion, I have no cause for concern, I feel certain.”

“My friends aren’t stupid. They know they’d have everything to lose and nothing to gain.”

In the meantime, the girls had come back from the bathroom. Lincoln moved off, to give me a chance to bring them up to date on the latest developments of the evening. I explained the situation to them and assured them that I would take care of their fee in person after they had performed their services. I’d never given them the short end of the stick before, and they saw no reason not to trust me that time as well.

I waved Gabriel Lincoln over, and he joined us. I got to my feet and the girls followed my lead.

“Mr. Lincoln, may I introduce Hanneke and Jane? They would be delighted to accept your invitation.”

I held out my business card, with my phone numbers on it.

“You can reach me at any of these numbers, if the experience meets with approval.”

The man solemnly slipped it into his pocket. I believe that he would have worn the same expression if it had been the business card of a Greek shipbuilder.

“One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“What brand of champagne will I be missing?”

“It’s usually Cristal.”

“A pity. I’ll try to get over it.”

With a smile of amusement, Gabriel Lincoln walked the girls to the front door. I was left sitting alone, surrounded by music, with a good feeling about the future.

To celebrate, I ordered a bottle of Cristal.

About a month later, I was contacted again by Lincoln, who gave me a number to call whenever I received a message, via pager, asking me to call 02 212121. To my enormous surprise, the voice I found myself dealing with was Bonifaci’s. He always remained nothing more than a voice on the phone to me. Those above a certain level use people like me for their own pleasure, but they are certainly not eager to see us socially. Which was fine with me, considering the very comfortable ratio of effort to profit.

My pager beeps.

The usual transaction with the switchboard. With the new development that this time the operator on duty is a woman. I immediately recognize the phone number I’m told to call. It’s a direct line to room 605 at the Hotel Gallia. I dial it with a sense of foreboding. When the phone is answered, I recognize the voice. It doesn’t sound happy.

“Hello?”

“This is Bravo.”

“I thought you were a man of your word.”

“In fact, I am.”

“Well, the same can’t be said of your little friend, if you still consider her one.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“I can tell you what
didn’t
happen. She didn’t show up.”

Shit.

“I apologize on her behalf.”

“Apology accepted, Signore Bravo. But relationship over.”

“Allow me to make up for it. I’ll send you—”

The voice breaks in, without any possibility of response.

“I warned you.”

Then the line goes dead. I can hardly blame him. No one can appreciate more keenly than I how frustrating an unsatisfied desire can be. I wonder what could have happened. Laura’s not the kind of girl to miss an appointment. Or at least, she never has been before. The one thing I know for certain is that this isn’t the result of any surprises on Tulip’s part, God rest his miserable soul.

What now?

A couple of filthy words are spinning around in my head as I dial Laura’s phone number. I can’t wait to drop them on her. The phone rings and rings but no one answers. Not even the answering machine clicks on.

I hang up and listen to my own answering machine. The tape winds back with a short whining clatter. Then come the voices.

Beep
.

“Bravo, it’s Cindy. I’m finally back. I arrived yesterday. America is nice but by now I feel as if I’m Italian. When can I see you? I have so much to tell you. I bet you do too. I’ve done some accounting and I feel like getting back to work. Give me a call as soon as you hear this message.”

Beep
.

“It’s Barbara. Vacation’s over. I’m back in Milan. Do you have anything equally interesting for me? Kisses to you, you fantastic man.”

Beep
.

“It’s Laura. Call me.”

“
Call me
my ass, you stupid bitch.”

The thought escaped me aloud, instinctively, in a hiss. I hear an amused comment in response.

“Is that how you’ll treat me, when I leave a message on your answering machine?”

I turn around and there, standing in front of me, is Carla. She found the clothes I told her about and now she’s completely changed, however casual her clothes might be. It’s another world, another story, another movie.

Another woman.

She’s wearing a pair of jeans and has a pair of light-colored suede
campero
boots on her feet. A light blue T-shirt and a canvas jacket the same color as her boots. Her wet hair is combed back and her eyes stand out like colorful handkerchiefs lying on the snow.

“I feel like a cowboy. How do I look?”

I stand there speechless, without answering her question. I’m only causing myself pain, but I can’t do anything else. I’m just captivated by the thought of what she’ll look like after a hairdresser, a makeup artist, and a designer have done some work on her. The minute I utter these thoughts in my mind, I realize I’m hopelessly lost.

8

We step out onto the landing and I pull the door shut behind us. As soon as my door closes, the one across the landing clicks and swings open. The figure of Lucio appears between door and doorjamb.

“Winners, placers, and showers.”

Carla is baffled. I smile. It’s the solution to the cryptic clue that I wrote on a slip of paper and slid under Lucio’s door, yesterday.

Forms of luck: horses that come in first, gold mines, or where a losing team is sent after the game (7, 7, 3, 7)

Winners, placers, and showers
, in fact. As in “win, place, or show.” A horse that comes in first is a winner, a placer mine is a kind of gold mine, and a losing team is sent to the showers. But a horse that comes in second is a placer, and a horse that comes in third is a shower. I knew that Chico, the young man who takes Lucio to work and back home every day, would find it and read it to him. And that he’d solve it. It wasn’t even all that hard. I decide that at this point it’s incumbent upon me to make introductions.

“Carla, this is my neighbor, Lucio.”

She looks at me, her brow furrowed. I wave a hand in front of my eyes, to let her know that Lucio is blind. He steps out of the door, his dark glasses now completely justified, and takes a step toward us on the landing.

“Lucio, the young lady who’s with me is named Carla.”

He extends his hand.

“
Ciao
, Carla. I’m afraid you’ll have to shake my hand, otherwise I might wind up looking like I’m playing blind man’s bluff.”

Lucio’s sense of humor is capable of resolving any awkward situation. In fact, the sticky moment passes and Carla shakes his hand. He holds hers longer than necessary.

“Nice skin, Carla. If it’s the same all over your body, your boyfriend is a lucky guy.”

Carla laughs. I can see that Lucio is pleased with his little triumph. I’m happy for him. We’re three people lost in a stormy sea and the landing is our raft. I think that we’re all well aware of the fact, each in his or her own way.

And each of us tries to battle the gales with the few tattered sails available.

Lucio turns toward me, his head just slightly out of alignment. He looks as if he’s hoping to get me into trouble.

“Now I’ve come up with one for you. It’s a bear.”

“Let me have it.”

“
Everyone was in debt—that’s permitted (seven)
. You might want to look at it written down, rather than rely on pronunciation. Though I didn’t, obviously.”

I repeat the puzzle in a low voice, to make sure I know it by heart. If my friend tells me that it’s a bear, I’m pretty sure it won’t be easy to solve. But he didn’t say it was a monster, so it’s not as bad as it could be.

I smack his arm with my hand, in a sign of farewell.

“
Ciao
, Lucio. I’m afraid we have to go.”

He pretends to take offense and he strikes up a little melodrama.

“Fine, fine. Just leave me here to brood over my grief, without so much as a cryptic clue to solve.”

I start downstairs and toss a challenge back over my shoulder to him.

“I’ve got a stumper all ready for you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do you persist in trying to be a musician, when you’re obviously not cut out for it?”

His words waft down to me when I’m already on the second landing down.

“Bravo, spending time with you is like sitting on a sea urchin, and you have the ear of Beethoven in his later years. Carla…”

She is a few steps ahead of me, and she stops when she hears her name. She looks up toward the voice that is echoing down the stairwell.

“Yes?”

“If you’d like to get a better understanding of Bravo’s cultural poverty this evening, just tell him to take you to Byblos, in Brera. That’s where I play.”

Carla catches the ball on the first bounce and joins in the game.

“Nothing on earth could make me miss it. I’ll force him to go, at gunpoint, if necessary.”