A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti Page B

Rondano, his insurance agent, to be specific.
    I knew what he was thinking and the question that was spinning in his head. It’s just that I expected it much earlier. At last he opened up, in a seemingly careless voice, continuing to watch the street with a zeal that seemed perhaps excessive.
    “That’s a nice thing Tano Casale’s put together, eh? He must pull money out of that place hand over fist.”
    “Yeah.”
    I’m all laconic, he’s finally explicit.
    “Do you have any deals under way?”
    “I’d have to say no.”
    “You know, I saw you come out of his office with him and I thought…”
    I interrupted. Sliding into a jocular scolding tone just so I could steer the conversation away from thin ice.
    “Daytona, don’t do too much thinking. Extensive experience shows that it’s not something you’re particularly good at.”
    If Daytona gets it into his head that I have connections with Tano, I’ll never get him off my back. His attitude with Micky told me everything I needed to know. He took the dressing-down with some resentment.
    “Ah, go yuck fourself. If that’s your way of trying to tell me it’s none of my business, then you can just keep your own…”
    Yes, I’ll keep my own secret forever .
    I felt like answering him in the Italian voice of Greta Garbo. Instead, I decided to minimize and change the subject with a plausible explanation, to keep him from sticking his nose in my business in the future. Most of all, I was sick of being questioned.
    “I had an errand to do. I was there as a messenger, nothing more. Once I delivered the message, the relationship was over. No deals under way, as you put it.”
    Whether or not that convinced him, the topic was closed. And with it, any interest Daytona might have had in me. Which was certainly one of the reasons he offered to drive me back to town in the first place.
    This time, when he asks the next question, he turns to look at me.
    “Where did you park your car?”
    “At the Ascot.”
    Standard expression of disappointment.
    “Do you mind if I leave you at the taxi stand, down at the end of this street? I have to be someplace and I’m already running late.”
    As long as I’ve known him, Daytona almost always has to be someplace. I’m pretty sure that these aren’t places where anybody does anything commendable. One of these days he’ll go directly from one of those places to a high-security prison without even transitioning through the street, as Godie would say. Placing his index and middle fingers on the victim’s throat like a pair of scissors.
    Tac! Got you! You have the right to remain silent.
    I wave a hand dismissively.
    “Don’t worry about it, drop me off wherever you want.”
    “Bravo, you’re a friend.”
    A friend. I feel like laughing out loud. After a certain time of night and a certain threshold of alcohol and cocaine, it’s the easiest thing in the world to find friends in Milan. You wind up in certain clubs, hanging out with a crowd that, taken all together, accounts for seven hundred years in prison, tossing around the word friend , distilled directly from the coca leaf. In reality, nobody’s anyone’s friend, not even their own. So it’s the commonest thing imaginable, the next morning, for someone to wake up with a terrifyingly ugly woman asleep next to him and not even remember her name. She’s just anyone, a woman picked up at random, out of desperation, when loneliness and booze conspire to shut your eyes tighter than a roll-down security shutter.
    I got out of Daytona’s Porsche and I headed over to the column of two or three taxis waiting hopefully in line, without realizing I was about to step into the Millennium Falcon . Which by now must have reached Warp Nine and must be hurtling past the San Siro Stadium on its way out of town.
    *   *   *
    I’m just about to pull open the driver’s side door of my Mini when I see Giorgio Fieschi walk out of the club along with a pair of fellow actors. I hear