A Darkening Stain by Robert Wilson Read Free Book Online

was ten minutes late. Carlo and Gio were sitting on the back terrace in front of a beer and a Coke. The girls were hovering. The Italians talked without looking up at each other, as if there was some kind of confessional going on. A tall Nigerian girl I knew from playing pool in here with Heike of a Saturday night bumped a hip into Gio and risked running her hand through his hair. He braced a shoulder which was enough to tip her away and then he leaned across and slapped her hard on the long bare thigh she had on show below her miniskirt. There wasn’t anything playful about the slap and she yelped. She retreated to the other girls in the bar, where I was ordering a
demi pression,
and showed off Gio’s perfect paw mark purpling up into a soft welt she’d have for a week. I told the girl to get some ice on it and went out to join the funsters.
    I gave them a good evening and pulled up a chair to the table for two. They said nothing. Carlo took the foam off his
demi.
Gio’s peasant hands rested on the table top, taking a momentary break from violence.
    â€˜I’ve made contact with Marnier,’ I said.
    â€˜Where is he?’ asked Carlo, sucking in an inch of beer, glass held between two fingers.
    â€˜He’s inside the cellphone footprint of Cotonou.’
    â€˜That’s something,’ said Carlo.
    â€˜He’s got another reason to keep quiet.’
    â€˜What’s the first reason?’
    â€˜You guys.’
    â€˜Does he know about us?’
    â€˜How much work did you do before you came to me?’
    â€˜I went to his office and his home.’
    â€˜You didn’t take Gio with you, did you?’
    â€˜No,’ he said, and nodded at Gio to keep him calm. Christ, the guy was on no fuse at all.
    â€˜Did you speak to anyone?’
    â€˜
Una ragazza.
’
    â€˜Bleach-blonde, miniskirt, nails?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜So Marnier knew about you before I got to him.’
    â€˜What’s the other reason he’s hiding?’
    â€˜Five dead stowaways were found on a ship he was working yesterday.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜They’re his. He put them there. It’s a sideline.’
    â€˜You telling us you can’t do the job?’
    Gio’s body odour was starting to get a little feral.
    â€˜I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’m here telling you how it is,’ I said. ‘Now look, maybe there’s a few things you can do for me. First of all, never come to my office for whatever reason. He’s going to come and see me sometime...’
    â€˜Then we’ll come and talk to him.’
    â€˜No. I’ll fix up a meeting and you can turn up and talk to him then. If you sniff around my office he’ll never show in the first place.’
    â€˜What’re the other things?’
    â€˜Why do you want to find him and what’re you going to do to him when you find him?’
    â€˜When
you
find him,’ he said, and then started blabbing to Gio in some dialect which sounded like a couple of Portuguese talking about opera.
    â€˜You said he’s on a cellphone,’ said Carlo.
    I wrote the number for him on a beer mat. They talked some more and Carlo nodded into the bar. Then he got up and said he’d speak to Franconelli, ask permission. Gio sucked on his Coke through the lemon and ice cubes.
    â€˜You speak any English, Gio?’
    â€˜No.’
    Well, I tried.
    We sat there for ten minutes. Two sailors were playing pinball in the bar and the girls were all over them. They shrugged off the flashier-looking but tougher Nigerian girls. They preferred the smaller, plumper Beninois girls who had a sweeter act but were no less focused on the bottom line.
    Gio ordered another Coke to slurp. The waiter didn’t have to ask me. Carlo rejoined us.
    â€˜Mr Franconelli says you’re to do what you’re fucking told and find Jean-Luc Marnier and don’t ask any questions about stuff that doesn’t