A Pimp's Notes Read Free

conceal it.
    Across the street from the Ascot Club is a big office building, the Milan headquarters of Costa Britain Shipping. It’s four stories tall and it takes up a good portion of the block—from the corner of Via Tempesta stretching past us all the way to Piazzale Lotto. Reinforced concrete, aluminum, steel, and sheet glass. And overhead lights always on, illuminating ceilings and empty desks, to remind everyone that in this city, even when people are at home sleeping, someone is thinking about work.
    A group of people have just stepped out of the glass doors. Cleaning women. They’ve emptied the trash cans, vacuumed the wall-to-wall carpeting, and scrubbed the bathrooms, hard laborers of the night who’ve toiled till now so that the hard laborers of the daytime will find a nice clean workplace when they arrive. A couple of them hurry off immediately, heading for bed or breakfast. The other cleaning women have stopped to talk, perhaps experiencing the same sensation that we had: at this time of the morning, the air is worth breathing. One of them has stepped aside to light a cigarette, and stands slightly separated from the group. She’s tall and slender, and her shapeless smock is incapable of concealing a certain attractiveness. Her hair is long and brunette and her face is fair and luminous.
    And resigned.
    I tip my head in her direction.
    “That one?”
    “Yup. Nice dish.”
    I look at Daytona, who’s already experiencing a movie in his head. Not a movie that they’d be able to show in any of the better movie theaters along the Corso Vittorio.
    “How much is she worth, to you?”
    “A C-note, if she’s willing.”
    A hundred thousand lire would buy a nice pair of shoes, with prices these days. And these days are getting very pricey.
    “Two hundred, and she’ll do it.”
    Daytona stares, eyes wide. He’s not doubting my statement, he’s doubting the price.
    “Christ, two C-notes.”
    “A hundred and fifty for her, and fifty for me.”
    “You piece of shit.”
    I look at him scornfully, as if he were a newly landed immigrant with a cheap suitcase.
    “It’s six in the morning, you’re all alone, you’re an ugly troll, and that’s a damn good-looking young woman.”
    He hesitates. Maybe he can’t tell whether I’m serious or I’m joking.
    I strike the fatal blow.
    “You just won a million eight. That leaves you with a million six.”
    “Okay. Let’s see what you can do.”
    I turn my back on him and walk away. Now it’s his turn to sit and watch. I cross the street and approach the girl, who’s smoking her cigarette, purse slung over one shoulder, eyeing me, evaluating me as I draw nearer. She’s much cuter up close. Actually, she’s quite pretty. Her eyes are light hazel, with a hint of sadness, maybe from seeing too much of life on the outskirts of the big city; they’re eyes that have yearned for things she’s never been able to afford.
    I smile.
    “ Ciao . Happen to have a light?”
    She swings her purse around, rummages in it, and pulls out a plastic cigarette lighter. She must be new to the job. Her hands aren’t roughened and reddened from ammonia and chores, at home and elsewhere. From the way she looks at me I can tell that she knows that getting a light for my cigarette was just an excuse. And not a very original one, I have to admit.
    I pull out my pack of Marlboros and light one up. I poke my finger through the cloud of smoke to point at the office building behind her.
    “You work here?”
    She bobs her head vaguely.
    “Cleaning woman. If you call that a job, then sure, I work here.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Carla.”
    “All right, Carla. Can I ask a personal question?”
    She silently assents. She’s curious. That means she’s smart.
    “How much money do you make a month?”
    She studies me, waiting to hear where I want to take this. There’s no fear in her eyes, and I like that.
    “A hundred eighty.”
    “Feel like making a hundred fifty in a couple of