A Pimp's Notes (16 page)

“Excellent. I just wanted to let you know that the transaction we discussed can be completed the day after tomorrow. Does that work for you?”

There’s a hesitation. A long pause. I think I must have ruined this decent man’s sleep, involving him in something that he feels is much bigger than him. He must be frightened for his part, especially because I went a little heavy on the threat that pulling out might have some unpleasant consequences.

I do my best to reassure him.

“Don’t worry about a thing. It’s going to go smoothly and you’re going to be a person with no more uncertainties in life.”

“Okay. What do I have to do?”

“Around eleven o’clock you’ll be outside the bank where you have your safe-deposit box, with a photocopy of the winning lottery ticket to prove that you actually have it. In exchange, you’ll be given the money we agreed upon. Once you’ve made sure that it’s the correct amount, you’ll go into the bank, you’ll place the money in the safe-deposit box, and only then will you take the original ticket and hand it over to me. Do you think that this procedure ensures your safety?”

The voice that comes through the receiver after due consideration strikes me as relieved. Maybe he too had been trying to think of a way to make sure he couldn’t be made the victim of some unpleasant machinations, and this solution is probably better than anything he was able to come up with.

“It seems good to me. The bank is the Credito Romagnolo, on Via Roma, in Cesano Boscone.”

I’m about to hang up, but then I decide that I still owe him a little advice, whether or not he can make use of it.

“Just one more thing, Signore Frontini.”

“Yes?”

“You know, a fortune has rained down on you out of a clear blue sky. Do your best not to ruin it for yourself. Take it easy with the money. Don’t change your life from one day to the next. Just go on living the same way for a while, let the world forget about things, and then move away, maybe to another city if you can. That sum of money can be a nice gift for you and your wife, but it can also mean a very nice future for your children.”

There’s a brief, silent moment of thought on the other end of the line.

“I think I understand.”

“I hope you do. Have a good evening, Signore Frontini. Sleep tight. You’re going to be a wealthy man very soon.”

As I hang up, a fleck of remorse arrives to flap its black wings over my certainties. It’s not something that happens very often, but this man has won my sympathy from the minute I met him, in all his disarming humanity. I feel as if I’m standing surety for him with myself and with the others, guaranteeing that nothing’s going to go horribly wrong.

I leave the bathroom and return to the table. Here I’m greeted by the awkward gazes of the three young women and the smirking expression of the man sitting with them in my chair. He’s a guy of average height, skinny, with a dark shirt and jacket that both need dry cleaning and pressing. His skin is slightly pockmarked by adolescent acne, he has an aquiline nose, and his broad, thin mouth needs only the hint of a smile to resemble the Jolly Joker. I know him very well, too, for a couple of reasons.

The first is the work that I do for a living; the second is the work that he does.

He’s Stefano Milla, a detective working out of the police station on Via Fatebenefratelli.

10

When we get to Byblos, Lucio is already performing.

He’s wearing his sunglasses and his hair is unkempt as usual. He’s sitting on a stool in the middle of a raised dais, his back to the wall, under an array of spotlights that he can’t see. I’ve always wondered whether the lighting of a stage is designed to put the star at the center of attention or whether it actually serves to keep him from seeing whether the room is empty or full. I imagine, as a person who lives in a reassuring penumbra, that both options can be a source of considerable anxiety. In any case, Lucio is the least likely person on earth to help me solve this riddle. I would guess that his relationship with his audience is much more olfactory than visual.

On the floor behind him is a stand with a classical Spanish guitar perched on it. What he’s holding in his lap right now is a Martin acoustic, on which he’s playing a very commendable personal version of Traffic’s “John Barleycorn.”

Lucio plays very well; he has both technique and heart. Although he doesn’t have a standard voice, it can transmit the kind of feeling that in a club like this one silences the noises in the room.

To keep from making noise during the performance, Carla and I stand by the bar until the performer is done with the song and has received the applause he deserves. Then we head for an empty table more or less in the middle of the room, the boundary between people who are there to listen to music and people who are there to drink and talk about everything without realizing that they’re actually talking about nothing.

I check with Carla.

“Is this table okay with you?”

She simply nods her head and sits down. Her eyes are focused on the stage. It’s clear that she loves music. I saw the expression with which she listened to the piece while we were waiting at the counter.

Without a word, Lucio replaces his acoustic guitar with the classical Spanish guitar and begins a piece by José Feliciano entitled “La Entrada de Bilbao.” The notes emerge and ricochet as Lucio’s fingers pinch and torment the nylon and copper of the guitar strings. I sit, relaxed, waiting to order my drink. I listen to the music, I look at Carla, and I do my best to put some order into everything that happened at the restaurant.

The club vanishes, along with the music and all the spectators.

I’d known Stefano Milla for a long time. My relationship was not one of friendship but merely a professional collaboration, if I can use the term. The kind of collaboration that could take place between someone like me and a policeman willing to turn a blind eye. And willing, when necessary, to put in a good word so that someone else might turn an equally blind eye. Not necessarily true corruption, just a very handy seat belt in case of a head-on collision. Which could never have been truly dangerous for either of us, because I always drove at very slow speeds. In exchange I would let him have a small bundle of cash from time to time so that he could pay for whatever his vices were—or else I let him have an evening with one of my girls.

I could never tell which of the two expense accounts pleased him more.

But finding him right in front of me at the Ricovero Attrezzi was a surprise. Which I did my best to conceal as I walked toward the table.

Milla was on his feet.

“I need to talk with you. What do you say we step outside for a couple of minutes?”

The tone of voice warned me that I hadn’t pulled a Jolly Joker out of the deck this time.

“That’ll be fine.”

Carla shot me a glance that contained more than one question mark. I reassured her with a quick facial expression. Then I excused myself from the table and followed the back of my visitor’s neck to the front door.

In the half-light of the parking lot we walked a short distance to make sure we weren’t within earshot of the attendant, who was leaning against the wall on our right, smoking a cigarette. Once we’d come even with my car, Milla told me what he wanted.

“There’s something you and I need to do together.”

“What?”

“You know better than I do. All I’m supposed to do is guard a briefcase and make sure that a certain envelope makes it safe and sound to its intended destination.”

That caught me off guard. It never occurred to me that Stefano Milla might be on Tano Casale’s payroll, nor would I have expected him to admit it so openly.

Perhaps all this appeared on my face. The policeman must have taken my bafflement for a judgment of his actions. He ventured into one of those unsolicited self-justifications that do nothing more than to tell you what an unpleasant traveling companion a guilty conscience must be on certain stretches of highway.

“Don’t act surprised, Bravo. And don’t you dare lecture me. You’re the last person on earth to even think of preaching.”

I shrugged a shoulder and lit a cigarette.

“What you do is none of my business. I’m not looking for trouble and I don’t want to make trouble for anyone else.”

“Ah, outstanding. A wise policy. So, what do we do?”

“Meet me the day after tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the morning on Via Roma, in Cesano Boscone, outside the branch office of the Credito Romagnolo.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. I need to see somebody and then you can hand over what you’re supposed to hand over. Anything else?”

He waited before answering. I realized that he wasn’t hesitating, just studying me. Or the expression I’d be wearing after the question he was about to ask.

“There might be something else. Did you hear about what happened to Salvatore Menno?”

This was the second person who had mentioned his name to me that same evening, and with practically the same words. It was just that I couldn’t quite determine in what capacity Milla was approaching the topic. Was he asking me about it as a representative of the law or as a man who has let personal self-interest drag him over to the opposite side? I looked up to sniff the air, and I didn’t like the scent I picked up one little bit.

“Sure. It was on TV.”

“I heard that recently you and he had had some disagreements.”

A derisive voice came charging through my memories and echoed in my head, as if Tulip were standing in front of me, instead of Milla.

“Dig. Even though your nice suit will get a little wrinkled. If you want, when you’re done, I’ll send it to the cleaners.”

And then those muffled noises

Pfft … pfft … pfft …

that traded life for death, one in place of the other, like pieces on a checkerboard.

“That guy was a psychotic bastard. I don’t know who knocked him off, but whoever it was probably had a perfectly good motive.”

“I can agree with you on that point.”

Milla stopped for a second. When he went on, his pockmarked face in the half-light made his words even less reassuring.

“But the same way that certain rumors reached my ears, they might make their way to the person who’s investigating his murder.”

Whichever side of the law that person might be on
, I thought.

The idea of getting heat from both the cops and Tano Casale wasn’t at all comforting. I kept it vague and uttered a half-truth, which as such offered me only partial security.

“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“That’s something that only you and Tulip know. And unfortunately he’s not around anymore to confirm what you say.”

“So what do you recommend I do?”

“Out of the fondness I feel for you, I recommend that you have an alibi for last night that’ll hold up.”

Carla’s voice caught us both by surprise.

“Oh, he has a perfectly good alibi.”

We both turned around and there she was, in front of us, lovely and distinct despite the dim light. She must have an internal light source that she carries with her, to make her eyes stand out like that.

She drew closer and stood at my side.

“We were together last night. All night long.”

Milla studied her for a little while before saying anything. In his tone of voice, I could hear the proper consideration for Carla’s words and appearance.

“Signorina, if it should prove to be necessary and you are willing to swear to that in front of a judge, there won’t be any problems for Bravo.”

“Of course I’m willing.”

“Very good.”

Milla raised an arm and lifted his cuff to check the time.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take my leave of this enchanting company. As for you, Signorina…?”

“Carla. Carla Bonelli.”

“There are people who would really be willing to kill to have a guarantor like you.
Arrivederci
.”

Without waiting for any response to his farewell, he turned on his heel and headed off toward a cluster of cars parked along the side of the road, under the streetlights. After taking a few steps, he stopped, turned back to look at us, and stamped our travel documents with a single phrase.

“Sometimes, only the stupid and the innocent lack an alibi.”

Then he left and was transformed into, progressively, the noise of a car door slamming and the same car’s engine moving away into the distance. Carla and I were left alone, surrounded by shiny cars and murky situations.

She could cast a little light on one or two of those situations.

“There are two things I want you to tell me.”

With a watchful expression Carla waited in silence until I was finished.

“One: Why did you follow me? Two: Why did you lie?”

A hint of defiance appeared in her voice, and I couldn’t say whether it was intentional.

“I followed you because I don’t like that guy. I lied because I do like you. And I trust you.”

I thought it was best to remind her of the way matters really stood. With determined precision. Not out of honesty, but out of squalid self-interest.

“This is a case of murder.”

In return, she replied with equally determined precision. Without any alternative: black or white.

“Did you do it?”

I declared my true color.

“No.”

“You see? So there’s no problem with saying that we spent the night together.”

She turned on her heel and walked without haste toward the front door of the restaurant, from which poured a light ill suited to chase away certain shadows. I caught up with her and walked by her side, and in that short distance, for the first time in my life, I felt as if I were part of something. I thought about the psychologist who worked with me for a certain period of time after my accident. At the time, he didn’t do me a bit of good, because all I wanted was to run away. I wondered what help he could give me now that my urge to flee had vanished as if by magic.

We went back to the table, where Cindy and Barbara were finishing their first course. The champagne was already half consumed. My steak was cold and the salad had withered from the vinegar. What remained of Carla’s risotto
alla milanese
had congealed into a dense yellow clump.