A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti Read Free Book Online Page A

address and the right words at the same time. The way I put the proposal would be crucial to the success of this first approach. I skimmed past the subsidized housing, surrounded on both sides by parked cars. Here, too, numbers. Fiats: 124, 127, 128, with the occasional luxury of a 131 and, as exotic touches, here and there an Opel or a Renault, until I found the number plate marked ten. I walked up to a row of buzzers, where I found the name I was looking for. There was no lock on the street door. I mused that probably even the tenants had no idea how long the lock had been missing and how long it would be until it was replaced. So much the better. I hate to telegraph my arrival by ringing the downstairs doorbell. I went in and walked up the stairs to the third floor, where another name plate told me I was standing in front of the right door.
    I rang the doorbell and got lucky. He opened the door himself. He had a smile on his face, and he was still talking to someone inside, but when he caught a glimpse of me both smile and words faded from his lips. He was a little taller than average, with a normal build, an unguarded facial expression, and the uncertain glance of someone who’s experiencing something that’s much bigger than him. Through that half-open door, I could see an apartment inhabited by people of modest means, with run-of-the-mill furniture and the smell of fried foods in the air, along with the unmistakable odor of the monthly struggle to make ends meet. If what I’d heard about the winning lottery ticket was true, I could see at first glance what 490 million lire would mean in a place like that.
    “Good evening. Are you by any chance Signore Frontini?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “I’m a neighbor of yours. I live here in the Quartiere Tessera. Do you have a minute to talk?”
    He courteously opened the door to let me in. I raised one hand to decline the offer.
    “You’re too kind. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer that we talk alone.”
    Without a word, letting the curiosity on his face serve as a reply, Remo Frontini stepped out onto the landing, pulling the door behind him and leaving it just slightly ajar.
    The ball was in my court. And I had to haul back and throw it straight and hard if I wanted to win the kewpie doll.
    “Signore Remo, let me come straight to the heart of the matter. I have the impression that you’ve had a stroke of good luck recently. A huge stroke of good luck.”
    The curiosity on his face was instantly replaced by alarm. He squinted and turned wary.
    “Wait a minute: who are you and who told you…”
    I interrupted him, sketching out a reassuring gesture.
    “Don’t worry. I’m not a problem. If anything, you can think of me as another stroke of good luck, Signore Frontini.”
    I paused.
    “Let’s just say, ten million lire more than what is already due to you. Which rounds out to a nice fat half a billion lire.”
    When the word billion jumped in right after the word million , it had a satisfying effect. And the sight of him standing there, listening to what I had to say instead of kicking my ass down the stairs, confirmed that the rumors I had heard were true.
    Which was lucky for him and, I hoped, for me.
    Little by little, winning him over despite his reluctance and assuring him that no one needed to know about it but the two of us, I managed to get him to admit that he was the one with the winning lottery ticket. The most important thing, to my relief, was that he hadn’t turned it in yet; it was tucked away in a safe-deposit box while he tried to figure out what to do next. I explained what I wanted from him, how it would be to his advantage, and just how we’d work the deal. I made him understand that I represented certain people who were known for being extremely grateful and generous with those who did them favors, or else deeply resentful toward those who refused. In the end, I could see that he was willing to accept my proposal, more out of fear of the