A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Giorgio Faletti
consequences than greed.
“All right, if you say that’s the way things really are…”
I gave him my very sunniest smile, the one that over time had won me the charms of many women and a razor blade.
“Of course that’s the way things really stand. You’re running absolutely no risk. You’ll have a great deal to gain and nothing to lose.”
I extended my hand. He gripped it. Not one hundred percent convinced, but still, he shook my hand.
“You’ll see that you made the right choice. You’ll have no reason to regret it.”
I took a step toward the stairs, a signal that our brief business meeting was over.
“I’ll be in touch with you. For now, have a good evening.”
“And good evening to you, Signore…”
I flashed him another smile.
“Everyone calls me Bravo. Why don’t you do the same?”
He turned and went back into the apartment. As I headed downstairs, I heard a woman’s voice from inside.
“Remo, who was that?”
The door swung shut before I could hear the answer. I found myself back in the street, inhaling the air of a warm spring evening, the kind that puts you at peace with the world. I went back to my car, feeling what the television news anchors describe as cautiously optimistic. Driving at a leisurely pace, I made it into the Brera neighborhood where, for an aperitif, I was forced to drive around looking for a place to park until I’d worked up an appetite. At last, I made it to a restaurant that I frequented, both for pleasure and for public relations. The Torre Pendente, in that period, was a very popular little place, where the Milan that goes out at night meets to begin the evening. The Milan that goes to Courmayeur, Santa Margherita, Portofino, and so on, with a long list of etceteras. All of them expensive little etceteras. People from the world of fashion, businesspeople, night owls, shitheads. All jumbled together in a way that makes it hard to tell which category any particular individual fits into. Here I saw a couple of girls I work with, one of them out for dinner with a date I had set her up with. I saw a couple of others I’d like to work with. I greeted friends, male and female, many of whom were faces with absolutely no names for me. I made one phone call to further Barbara’s economic interests and another to lay out the rest of the operation I was getting under way with Remo Frontini.
Finally I ate dinner, just trying to kill time until my appointment with Laura.
And now I’m here, crushing my cigarette with the heel of my shoe and locking my miserable little loser car. Aside from the occasional concession to the importance of façade, that is to say personal grooming and apparel suitable for appearing in certain social circles, my life is usually lived behind the scenes. Milan is a city that by night offers many hiding places in spite of the neon, the bright lights, and the blinking signs. The more light there is, the more shadow becomes available. And I’ve always been particularly good at moving in those shadows.
I’m outside the front door of the Ascot Club and I’m about to take the stairs when a Ferrari 308 GTB, so red it could piss off a bull and an army of wage slaves, pulls up alongside me. The man behind the wheel gestures to me with one hand. I walk over and he leans across to push open the passenger door. I get in, sit down, and seal our conversation behind the thump of a panel of elegantly shaped metal.
“ Ciao , Bravo.”
“Hey, Micky. How’s it hanging?”
“Sometimes to the right, other times to the left. As usual.”
I take in the handsome blond young man dressed in Armani sitting in the driver’s seat. Micky is about thirty and he’s at the top of his game. He leads a pretty good life, spending time with the kind of women who are willing to pay for his expensive bad habits and the kind of people who allow him to set aside a little something for the future, without putting too fine a point on the various whys and for whoms. He
“All right, if you say that’s the way things really are…”
I gave him my very sunniest smile, the one that over time had won me the charms of many women and a razor blade.
“Of course that’s the way things really stand. You’re running absolutely no risk. You’ll have a great deal to gain and nothing to lose.”
I extended my hand. He gripped it. Not one hundred percent convinced, but still, he shook my hand.
“You’ll see that you made the right choice. You’ll have no reason to regret it.”
I took a step toward the stairs, a signal that our brief business meeting was over.
“I’ll be in touch with you. For now, have a good evening.”
“And good evening to you, Signore…”
I flashed him another smile.
“Everyone calls me Bravo. Why don’t you do the same?”
He turned and went back into the apartment. As I headed downstairs, I heard a woman’s voice from inside.
“Remo, who was that?”
The door swung shut before I could hear the answer. I found myself back in the street, inhaling the air of a warm spring evening, the kind that puts you at peace with the world. I went back to my car, feeling what the television news anchors describe as cautiously optimistic. Driving at a leisurely pace, I made it into the Brera neighborhood where, for an aperitif, I was forced to drive around looking for a place to park until I’d worked up an appetite. At last, I made it to a restaurant that I frequented, both for pleasure and for public relations. The Torre Pendente, in that period, was a very popular little place, where the Milan that goes out at night meets to begin the evening. The Milan that goes to Courmayeur, Santa Margherita, Portofino, and so on, with a long list of etceteras. All of them expensive little etceteras. People from the world of fashion, businesspeople, night owls, shitheads. All jumbled together in a way that makes it hard to tell which category any particular individual fits into. Here I saw a couple of girls I work with, one of them out for dinner with a date I had set her up with. I saw a couple of others I’d like to work with. I greeted friends, male and female, many of whom were faces with absolutely no names for me. I made one phone call to further Barbara’s economic interests and another to lay out the rest of the operation I was getting under way with Remo Frontini.
Finally I ate dinner, just trying to kill time until my appointment with Laura.
And now I’m here, crushing my cigarette with the heel of my shoe and locking my miserable little loser car. Aside from the occasional concession to the importance of façade, that is to say personal grooming and apparel suitable for appearing in certain social circles, my life is usually lived behind the scenes. Milan is a city that by night offers many hiding places in spite of the neon, the bright lights, and the blinking signs. The more light there is, the more shadow becomes available. And I’ve always been particularly good at moving in those shadows.
I’m outside the front door of the Ascot Club and I’m about to take the stairs when a Ferrari 308 GTB, so red it could piss off a bull and an army of wage slaves, pulls up alongside me. The man behind the wheel gestures to me with one hand. I walk over and he leans across to push open the passenger door. I get in, sit down, and seal our conversation behind the thump of a panel of elegantly shaped metal.
“ Ciao , Bravo.”
“Hey, Micky. How’s it hanging?”
“Sometimes to the right, other times to the left. As usual.”
I take in the handsome blond young man dressed in Armani sitting in the driver’s seat. Micky is about thirty and he’s at the top of his game. He leads a pretty good life, spending time with the kind of women who are willing to pay for his expensive bad habits and the kind of people who allow him to set aside a little something for the future, without putting too fine a point on the various whys and for whoms. He