A Pimp's Notes

by Giorgio Faletti

  I catch a cab and tell the driver to take me to the Ascot Club.

  The cabbie says nothing and neither do I: a perfect driver and a perfect passenger. He delivers me to my destination with only one statement: the fare for the ride.

  Via Monte Rosa is experiencing one of its ordinary nights: traffic, parked cars, women loitering in the street. I take up a position in the shade of a tree at the corner of Via Tempesta, with a clear view of both the front door of the Ascot and the entrance to the Costa Britain office building.

  I don’t know how long I’m going to have to wait, but I certainly don’t feel like waiting in the company of one of the nosy regulars at the Ascot Club.

  By now, everyone knows what happened. The ones who knew Laura, Cindy, and Barbara and who knew about their ties to me would be willing to kill, so to speak, to get some firsthand information on the case. Even though the show doesn’t start until eleven and it’s unlikely I’d run into anyone before then, I still prefer to lurk in the shadows. It’s always been my guiding rule in life, though I can’t say it’s done me a lot of good.

  I pace and smoke as I wait, until my patience is finally rewarded. I see two women walking in my direction on the far side of the street. When they come more or less even with me, they cross over to my side of the street, and as they pass I recognize one of them. It’s the cleaning woman who looked at me with a face full of assumptions, the morning I first approached Carla.

  I step up and address them.

  They’re two women of ordinary appearance, the same height and impossible to place in terms of age, maybe made slightly more attractive in the half-light. They look so much alike they could easily be sisters. Or maybe they’re just born losers and that hallmark creates a resemblance that’s stronger than blood. They come to a halt and stand side by side, with the suspicion stamped on their faces that I’ve probably just taken them for prostitutes.

  I speak to the familiar face.

  “Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Do you do the cleaning at the Costa offices?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a girl who works with you, a certain Carla Bonelli. You wouldn’t happen to have her address and phone number by any chance, would you?”

  The two women exchange a glance. Then the one I first spoke to answers for the pair of them.

  “What was the name you just said?”

  “Carla Bonelli.”

  The reply comes immediately, without hesitation.

  “There’s no girl by that name working with us.”

  I don’t know how big the plot of ground is that I’m standing on, but I can definitely feel it shrinking beneath my feet.

  “Are you sure? She’s a tall girl, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. I saw her leave work with you, a few days ago.”

  “Sure, I remember that girl. But she was standing in the street by the front door when we left work, she was never inside with us. And I remember you, too. Forgive me, but we just assumed that the girl was one of those women and that you were…”

  She catches herself before telling me what she thought I was. And I see how things actually went. I never did actually see Carla come out the door with the others. Daytona was the one who pointed her out to me, outside the Costa offices. He was the one who challenged me to pick her up, knowing that I’d eagerly take the bait.

  I turn my back on the two women and leave, without thanking them or saying good-bye. Who the fuck cares. I have something more important to do right now. I walk briskly toward the taxi stand in Piazza Amendola. I can feel the impelling need, as tight around me as if I were wearing a straitjacket, to have a little talk with Paolo Boccoli, better known by his nickname, Daytona.

  14

  Daytona’s mother lives in the Isola district, on Via Confalonieri, near the Stecca degli Artigiani. As I walk through the park on my way to her house, I wonder whether I’m doing something incredibly stupid. That’s certainly a possibility I can’t rule out, but when you’re drowning, even a sponge bobbing on the surface starts to look a lot like a lifesaver.

  Last night I covered half of Milan, dropping into the all the places my friend usually spends his evenings, but without success. At Le Scimmie, on the Navigli, I ran into Matteo Sana and Godie, but when they saw me they reacted in a way that frankly surprised me. Instead of hurrying me into a dark, quiet corner where they could hammer my balls with question after question, they just pretended they hadn’t seen me at all. That allowed me to gauge my current position. Now I’m someone it’s best not to be seen talking to. In this specific case, it might just be better that way. I took a look around the crowded club, trying to catch a glimpse of Daytona’s head with its distinctive double comb-over.

  I didn’t find him.

  I figured there were plenty of places he could be: at Tano’s gambling den or someplace where they let you lose all your money, or else in bed with some hooker. Or else up in some hovel, like a giant treacherous rat, gnawing away at his piece of hard cheese, waiting for the storm to blow over.

  In any case, all of those places are either unidentifiable or unreachable.

  In the taxi that took me home, I remembered the words that Daytona spoke in an almost identical situation, and that gave me an idea. A pathetic, desperate, miserable idea, but it was the only one I had. Now here I am, with an oversize leather-bound desk diary under my arm and a heavy manila business envelope, which, as fate would have it, is stuffed with bundles of neatly clipped pages from a newspaper. As I was filling the envelope, I couldn’t help but smile, thinking that this could be a case of sartor resartus—the clipper reclipped.

  Lucio would have been proud of me for that one.

  But I didn’t feel like telling him about my troubles in order to collect the prize.

  I find myself outside the street door of an ordinary apartment building, clearly the product of some public housing project. This is where Daytona’s mother lives, and she’s the only hope left to me in my quest to track him down. That piece of shit actually has a pretty close relationship with the woman who brought his unkempt bundle of loserdom into the world, as so often seems to be the case with certifiable whoremongers like him. If he’s pulled something big and decided to lie low for a while, his mother is the one person who certainly knows where he is. And before long, with a sliver of good luck and plenty of my good old-fashioned shameless impudence, I hope to find out for myself.

  I step up to the intercom and press the buzzer that’s marked BOCCOLI-CRIPPA. Time passes as I imagine her dragging her feet down a hallway on a couple of felt pads to keep from dulling the shine of the wax. The voice that comes out of the speaker is warm and pleasant.

  “Yes?”

  I cross my fingers and announce myself.

  “Buon giorno, Signora. My name is Rondano, I’m Paolo’s insurance agent. I can’t find him at his apartment. Would he happen to be here, by any chance?”

  “No, he’s out of town for a few days, for work.”

  Just as I expected. That poor woman is the only person in the city of Milan who could mention her son and the idea of work in the same breath. If it’s true that a son can always pull the wool over his mother’s eyes, Daytona’s pulled the entire sheep.

  “That’s what I guessed. I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and since I have some documents for him to sign, I thought I’d stop by and drop them off with you. It’s for a claim settlement. If you’ll open the door for me, I can leave them with you. That way, when he gets back he can sign them right away. The quicker he gets them to me, the quicker I can get him his money.”

  She’s stumped. I can tell from the long silence that follows my words. At last, her fear of interfering with her son’s interests or even getting him mad at her wins out over her inborn caution.

  “Third floor.”

  The door clicks open with a harsh, metallic sound. The word money is a jimmy that can force open many doors, both physical and mental
. I climb the drab steps, inhaling air that reeks of cooking and bleach. It’s not a very appetizing medley. But I’m not here to buy an apartment, just to steal some information.

  Daytona’s mother is waiting for me at the door. She’s a woman of average height, with a weary face and a vulnerable air about her. She’s wearing an apron over a housedress. Maybe when I rang she was making something to eat, more out of habit than hunger. From what little I know of her life, the only good thing that ever happened to her was that her husband, who treated her like a dog, died at an early age. Unfortunately fate took its revenge by presenting her with a son like Daytona, who calls her la me mameta and who must be personally responsible for half the white hairs on her head.

  There are some people who never seem to catch a break.

  She greets me with that same lovely voice, but over the intercom it had made me imagine a very different appearance. Fantasy on the radio, reality on TV.

  “Buon giorno.”

  “Buon giorno, Signora…”

  “Crippa, Teresa.”

  In spite of my current frame of mind, I’m touched by a twinge of tenderness at this introduction. As if I were a census taker, she gives me surname, comma, followed by Christian name. I extend a hand with my very sunniest smile. She clasps my hand with some hesitance, as if she were somehow unworthy of the person she’s meeting.

  “Pleasure to meet you. Marco Rondano.”

  I hand her the envelope.

  “Here it is, Signora Teresa. Inside this envelope are the documents I told you about. Just tell Paolo to sign where I marked an X in pencil.”

  She repeats it back to me, just to make sure that she understood correctly.

  “He should sign where there’s an X in pencil.”

  “Exactly. Thanks very much, Signora.”

  I take a couple of steps backward, as if I’m about to turn and go. I stop and interrupt her words of farewell by lifting my wrist to check the time. I put on the worried face of someone who’s just remembered something important.

  “Could I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a person I have to call and I need to catch them now, before they leave the office. Would it be too much trouble if I asked to use your phone? It’s a local call.”

  Many people who are getting along in years are very cautious about their phone bills. I added that last detail to reassure her that the call won’t cost her a cent.

  “Well, if it’s a call here in the city, certainly. Paolo pays my phone bill, and I wouldn’t want him to spend too much money.”

  I feel like telling her that her son loses more money at the card tables in five hours than she gets from her retirement payments in five years. But it would just be gratuitously unkind and a waste of time: there are myths that are completely bulletproof.

  Signora Teresa ushers me into a hallway that’s so clean it looks like a painting. There’s a slight scent in the air that’s reminiscent of eucalyptus cough lozenges. The furniture is worn but gleaming, probably furniture that was new the day she was married. On the walls hang ordinary paintings, purchased at the fair or won at a charitable drawing. A framed photograph of her son with his class at school, surrounded by a crocheted passe-partout, hangs above the phone. A caption is embroidered into the doily-like mat under the glass: Third Grade. I’m surprised to learn that Daytona even made it that far in school. When I see the phone, I heave a sigh of relief. It’s one of those black ones, with a circular dial. It’s sitting on an otherwise nondescript piece of furniture, with two shelves one above the other, and a cabinet under the shelves with two little doors.

  I lay the desk diary on the lower shelf.

  I dial my own phone number and pretend to have an intense conversation with a nonexistent client, leaving a long message on my answering machine, well beyond the beep that indicates that the message has gone on too long. I end the conversation as if the person I just spoke with had told me something worrisome.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there in just ten minutes. Piazzale Maciachini, right?”

  I leave a pause for an answer that would never come.

  “Number six, I’ve got it. I’ll see you in just a bit.”

  I turn to look at poor Signora Teresa, who has been listening to my end of the conversation from the kitchen, where the table is strewn with chopped and as-yet-unchopped vegetables for eventual use in a future minestrone. A time-consuming, labor-intensive, health-giving recipe: and, most important of all, an inexpensive one. I act like someone with the devil on his tail.

  “There, all done. Thank you so much. Unfortunately I have to run now. Say hello to Paolo and tell him to get in touch.”

  She takes a step toward me.

  “Don’t bother, I know the way out. Take care, Signora.”

  She calls out arrivederci when I’m already at the far end of the hallway. Oh, she may say “until we meet again,” but she has no idea how soon it will be. If everything goes as it should, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.

  I close the door behind me and I hurry away, afraid that I might hear the door swing open any minute and her voice summoning me back. Luckily, that’s not what happens. I slip into the first bar I pass. I order an espresso and smoke a cigarette, leafing through the Corriere della Sera, which is lying alongside the Gazzetta dello Sport on the ice cream freezer.

  On the newsprint pages there are words and pictures. All of them related to the events that occurred in a wealthy home in Lesmo, outside Monza. Facts and suppositions, stories of individuals, the smiling faces of pretty girls, the serious faces of men in official settings, bodies sprawled on the ground, covered with bloodstained sheets transformed into black-and-white splotches. Whatever the nature of a life, death should afford a little privacy.

  There’s nothing about a woman with hazel eyes who was supposed to be in that house but wasn’t. She wasn’t in any of the places where she told me that she’d been. And she wasn’t in any of the places where she told me she’d be. Only in my apartment and on my skin, here and there.

  I glance at my watch. It’s been twenty minutes. That should be plenty.

  A few seconds later I’m downstairs, pressing the same buzzer again. Her voice takes the exact same amount of time to issue from the intercom.

  “Who is it?”

  “Signora, I’m sorry to bother you, it’s Rondano again. I forgot my desk diary. Can I come up and get it?”

  The door clicks open. I walk in and hurry up the steps. She’s standing at the door with the object of my all-too-intentional forgetfulness in her hand.

  “I’m just getting everything backward today. I don’t know what’s come over me. As they say: If you don’t use your head, you’ll have to use your legs.”

  I take the leather-bound volume with its gold clasp lock from her hands.

  “It certainly is heavy!”

  “Well, that’s the leather binding that makes it so heavy. It was a gift from my girlfriend, otherwise I would have already gotten something lighter.”

  We say good-bye again, and as I hurry downstairs this time my haste is genuine. As soon as I’m out in the street I pull a small brass key out of my pocket and I insert it into the lock on the clasp that secures the desk diary. I open it and I’m reassured by what I find inside. I’ve cut a space into the paper just big enough to conceal the portable tape recorder that is still turning, before my eyes. In succession I push the STOP button and then the REWIND button. With a faint whine the tape whirs back to the beginning. I wait to get back to my car before listening to it, and I’ve never walked a longer three hundred yards in my life.

  I get behind the wheel and slam the car door shut. I heave a sigh that amounts to an auditory crossing of fingers and I push the PLAY button. For a little while you can hear, faint but comprehensible, the conversation between me and Daytona’s mother. My whole performance right up to when I say good-bye and hurry offstage.

  Finally, I hear what I’m most interested in.

 
In the silence of the apartment, the sound of a telephone rotor being dialed. Loud and clear. Even though it’s being recorded through the cover of the desk diary.

  Trrr … trrr … trrr …

  Then Signora Teresa’s voice.

  “Ciao, sweetheart, it’s me.”

  Silence.

  “I know I’m not supposed to call you, but somebody came to see you. It’s your insurance agent. He brought you some documents you’re supposed to sign for a reimbursement.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know. They’re in an envelope.”

  A pause. The woman becomes increasingly anxious as she openly avows her inadequacy.

  “Now, you know I don’t understand anything about this kind of thing. I’ll put it in your bedroom and you can open it when you come home.”

  Another short silence. This one’s not to listen but to screw up her courage.

  “Will you be here soon?”

  I imagine Daytona hiding somewhere, anxious and on edge, his comb-over disheveled and his face red as a beet. I imagine his mother’s face as she accommodates her son’s lies. I consider that if she had decided to open the envelope, my own lies would have been uncovered.

  “All right, darling. But take care. And call me now and then.”

  The sound of the receiver being hung up and then steps fading away. Back to the kitchen, I imagine.

  I stop the tape recorder. From the brief conversation that’s recorded on the tape, I have a confirmation of two facts. The first is that, whatever’s going on, that bastard Daytona’s in it up to his neck. The second is that I may have a way of finding out where he’s hiding.

  I rewind the tape to the point where Signora Teresa dialed the number. I pull out a sheet of paper and I start a process of deciphering the numbers that I hope will prove to be effective. I start marking down the numbers after counting the whirring clicks of the telephone dial. The system is catch-as-catch-can and I have to rewind the tape a number of times before obtaining a result that strikes me as reasonably certain. If there’s a god who watches over sons of bitches, I pray that he’ll rest his hand on my head and remove his hand from Daytona’s.