Death of a Showgirl Read Free Page A

to the Tiber. Motorbikes kept roaring past me, weaving between the traffic as the tyres swayed out flamboyantly from under the drivers. It was a warm night and most cars had their windows down. Each time we stopped at traffic lights I heard their thumping music and felt the vibrations through my seat. It was as if each car was competing with the next to impose their beat. Men were leaning out of windows trying to make the girls in other cars laugh. Someone on a moped recognised a friend on another moped and they bumped gloved knuckles like boxers before a bout.
    It was a long time since I had been in Rome. I had forgotten the energy and noise of the place. It seemed to come alive at night like the throbbing, insistent sound of cicadas after sunset. I sped past ancient floodlit monuments, past the august cupolas and famous ruins. Immaculate shop displays were illuminated and there were small crowds even now, nocturnal window shopping under the palm trees.
    I tried to remember which bridge I needed to cross to get to Testaccio. I overshot and had to turn round and go back up the river the other way: more traffic lights, more loud music, more banter.
    There was a procession of drivers looking for somewhere to park. Most of the cars around here seemed abandoned rather than parked. They had just put a wheel or two on the pavement and left it at that. I went up and down narrow cobbled streets and eventually found a small patch of pavement I could claim as my own. I ripped the snap of Simona out of the magazine and twisted my body sideways to get out of the car.
    There was a bar on the corner of the street. It was one of those expensive, sedate places where the waiters wore uniforms. I sat down and ordered a coffee. The guy came back with a small steaming thimble and the scontrino.
    ‘You know where the Oro nightclub is?’ I asked as I passed him some coins.
    ‘Sure,’ he said, nodding cheerfully like he wished he was there. He gave me directions and then looked at me with his head cocked to one side. ‘With respect, you don’t look like the usual Oro punter.’
    I ran my hand across my short greying hair and looked at my clothes. I was wearing an old pair of trousers and a shirt that had seen better days. ‘Underdressed?’ I asked.
    ‘Underdressed and overage,’ he smiled.
    ‘It’s a young crowd in there?’
    He nodded. ‘Young and pretty wild.’
    I told him I was looking for my daughter. I showed him the photo of Simona and he took it and held it towards the old-fashioned lantern advertising a beer brand that was hanging from a corner of the awning. He shook his head and wished me luck.
    I picked up the sachet from the saucer, ripped off the corner and poured in some sugar. I stirred and knocked back the scalding rich liquid. There were young kids playing on the steps of a monument in the middle of the small square. Behind them were the pillars and pediment of an ancient church.
    The man’s directions led me towards a main road on the other side of the suburb’s narrow streets. There were a few dolled-up kids waiting to cross the road with me and I followed them to what looked like an abandoned industrial complex sandwiched in the fork between two roads.
    The name of the place, Oro, was written in illuminated golden letters. I could hear the thumping music reverberating outside. There must have been about a hundred people in the queue, all chattering away. The men looked like they were dressed for a day’s work in the bank: white shirts, stiff collars, smart shoes, immaculately combed hair. The women were more exotic. Under their jackets, most of them seemed to be wearing more make-up than clothing.
    I took out the snap of Simona and started walking up and down the queue, asking if anyone had seen her. One man joked that he wouldn’t mind getting to know her and his friends guffawed. Another, a young girl with glitter on her powdered cheeks, said that she looked familiar. No one said anything useful. I joined the