A Pimp's Notes Read Free Page A

hours?”
    She understands immediately. I brace myself for a slap that doesn’t come. Which is already significant. Maybe she’s familiar with propositions of this kind. Maybe she has a special need for money right now. Maybe, in a flash, she has simply glimpsed a way out of the misery of the city’s outskirts, frozen foods, clothing purchased off the rack in a UPIM department store. There are countless possibilities, and I don’t care about any of them.
    There is only one thing left to clear up, so she asks.
    “With who?”
    I jerk my head sideways at a point behind me. She identifies Daytona on the other side of the street. Then she turns her gaze back to me, with a hint of disappointment in her eyes. She drops her gaze and stares at the sidewalk, before answering.
    “He’s no Robert Redford.”
    I put on an innocent expression, the way you do when something is patently obvious.
    “Yeah, if he was I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”
    She looks over at the other women, clustering a short distance away as if waiting for her. Since the two of us began our conversation, they’ve been studying us, silently surmising. An occasional giggle, a few sidelong glances. A few of those glances may have contained a hint of envy. Carla looks back at me, a note of defiance in her hazel eyes.
    She speaks in a low voice, as if her lips were uttering a furtive thought. She suggests an alternative.
    “If it was you, I’d do it for free…”
    I lightly shake my head, firmly cordoning off that line of inquiry.
    “I’m out of the question.”
    She needs to understand.
    “Is it that you don’t like me, or do you just not like women?”
    “Neither one. Let’s just say that in this particular circumstance I’m a middleman.”
    Carla says nothing. I sense that she’s weighing the pros and cons. I don’t have the impression that it’s a question of morality, just of convenience. Maybe she comes from one of those families in which the father is the proprietor of everything that’s in the house, daughters included. Maybe it’s just a matter of setting a fair price for something she usually has to give up without being asked. Or maybe those are all just fantasies I’m spinning in my mind and, as is so often the case, the truth is completely different. No one can say what’s really going on in people’s minds.
    And sometimes all that matters is what people decide to do.
    Carla nods her head.
    “Tell him to wait for me out front of the Alemagna, on Via Monte Bianco. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
    I point to Daytona’s orange Porsche. It’s an old model, a used car with dimmed status. Most of the status remained in the hands of the original owner, who is certainly now driving the latest model. But for people like Daytona and the people he frequents that car remains a glittering trinket, a badge of honor.
    “That’s his car.”
    “All right.”
    While we talk, her fellow workers move off down the sidewalk. Carla seems relieved. She won’t have to come up with an explanation right now. I feel certain that by tomorrow she’ll have something ready. Cash and a sense of guilt are two excellent incentives for ingenious falsehood.
    “Just a piece of advice.”
    “Yes?”
    “Have him buy you a cup of coffee and don’t get in the car unless you have the money safe in your purse.”
    She looks at me with a smile that’s not exactly a smile.
    “Is that how it’s done?”
    “Yes, that’s how it’s done.”
    I turn to go and my gaze settles on Daytona, waiting expectantly on the other side of the street. I cross the street and walk over to him. He saw the exchange, though he couldn’t tell what we were saying, just like Carla’s fellow cleaning women. As I approach him, I discard the cigarette and exhale the last lungful of smoke into the general haze of Milanese smog.
    “Well?”
    “Wait for her in front of the Alemagna. She’ll see you there.”
    “How much?”
    “A hundred and fifty, like I