The Goodbye Kiss (4 page)

    He
drank his coffee and waved me over. "I've set up a business in Veneto,
near Treviso," he explained. "Lap dancing, a joint where girls dance
topless and guys drool and slip cash down their knickers. I need somebody I can
trust to keep an eye on the clientele. You interested?"

    "Does
it pay?"

    He
showed me a row of nicotine-stained teeth. "Very well. I kid you
not."

    "Then
I'm interested." I put some umph into it.

    He
handed me a card with the details about the place. It was called Blue Skies-in
English. Not what I'd call a stroke of genius. "Show up tomorrow
night."

    When
he was opening the door to leave, he had an afterthought and turned back.
"I know you're an informer," he said under his breath. "So am I.
I just want to be up front so we don't step on each other's toes."

    Blue
Skies was formerly a disco. Situated in the middle of the deserted countryside,
it guaranteed a fair amount of discretion to its clientele. It was a cash cow,
and like the owner said, a dozen foreign broads danced, shaking their asses at
the customers who'd stretch out an arm to slide banknotes into their G-strings.
Not every girl was a knockout. Faces didn't count for much. The job
qualifications were ranked in the following order: tits, legs, height, ass.

    For a
hundred euros a day, I handled the customers who requested a private session. A
guy would come to me, point out a dancer, and when she was free, I'd send her
over to a private booth to perform exclusively for him. Every so often I
managed to pull in some tips, and the salary wasn't bad. But this line of work
wasn't going to get me very far. The most I could expect was to own another
topless joint. Just like the

    Barese,
who sported gold around his neck and wrists and kept the nails on his pinkies
about four centimeters long. A hood who commanded respect. But he wasn't my
shining example. Still, I liked Veneto. It was on the fringes, and everybody
had a chance to make it. All you needed was a little imagination, the drive to act
and zero fear about sticking it up the next guy's asshole. First on the list
was the State and its fucking taxes. I knew guys who used to go around in rags,
then they found the right racket, and now they were sliding their asses into
the leather seat of a Mercedes, dropping five hundred a night on the girls.

    After
three months of the same old tune, I decided to rip off the Barese. It'd be
risky because he was sharp as a tack, nothing got by him, and he trusted
nobody-the essentials for dodging any loss of respect. To make dead sure you
got the message, he appeared in public with his two Romanian gorillas,
ex-miners who were beefy and cruel. Used to work for Miron Cosma, the boss who
led his sooty-faced thugs to Bucharest to teach a lesson to the rebellious
students. Instead of heading back to dig coal, they crossed the border to make
a pile.

    Convinced
I was sharper than the Barese, I started shaving off the take from the private
sessions. The first move was to break it to the girls, who gave me a percentage.
Ten percent from every customer. Which meant another hundred and fifty, two
hundred every night. Some nights were really busy, and the dancers did more
than twenty sessions. Since I was the one who kept track of the services and
the take, I occasionally "forgot" to cue a customer and pocketed his
money. During weekends I managed to earn another five hundred a night.

    One
Saturday, just before closing time, a Slovenian chick with a nasty tongue
signaled me to follow her into the dressing room where she made a scene,
yelling she wanted her money or she'd spill everything to the owner. You can
bet I was primed for a situation like this, and I came right back at her. I
clipped her hard in the pit of the stomach. Whores are used to getting slapped around,
like the Romanians explained to me, and they can take it. She fell to the
floor. I grabbed her by the hair, forced her to her knees and shoved my cock
into her mouth. I felt her go slack, probably thinking she got off easy. I let
her think it. All of a sudden I pulled her up and spun her around, smacking her
against the wall; then I tore off her G- string and fucked her up the ass. She
tried to get free, but I punched her in the kidneys. That made her settle down.

    "Tell
the other girls about our tete-a-tete," I said, zipping up my trousers.
"And don't forget: anybody who doesn't play my game goes back home. I know
the right cops. You understand?"

    She
lowered her head. I grabbed her by the chin. "But you don't have to worry.
You I forgive, and I won't have you escorted to the border."

    "I'm
sorry, I didn't want to cause problems," she said in tears.

    "Brava!
A little education never hurts," I said, giving her a pat on the cheek.
The bitch fell for it hook, line and sinker. Barely nineteen, she hadn't been
here long. Dreamed of becoming a dancer in Las Vegas and getting her knickers
stuffed with dollars. Thick as she was she'd never make it.

    With
the new cash flow I could afford to rent a house in town. Up till then I lived
in a one-room flat carved out of the top floor of the club. It goes without
saying I located the house through a customer who ran a real-estate agency.
That's how things worked at the club. When somebody needed a favor, they turned
to the right customer. In town they knew who we were, even the ones who never
set foot inside Blue Skies and made out like they were moralists in public,
looking down their noses at us. They acted the same way people did with
brothels, like real holier-than-thou hicks. Even the widow Biasetto, the
cleaning woman, didn't stop herself from bad-mouthing the place. But we had the
customers by the balls. We knew everything about them because they confided
more in the girls than in their parish priest. After I closed on the house,
part of a two- family dwelling, and furnished it cheaply thanks to a lot of
furniture dealers who appreciated the private sessions, I started hanging
around town, shrugging off the looks I drew from people. I could've got myself
a decent car, but that would make me more conspicuous, especially with the
carabinieri, who stopped me every time we bumped into one another. When they
checked my documents, I turned out to be a dangerous ex-terrorist, and they
used it as an excuse to search my car and give me the third degree about the
Barese's business. They were hoping to nab me with some of the cocaine that
flooded the club, but I wasn't a dope. So I had to content myself with a used
Panda. At the wheel of the compact I gave the impression of being the lowest
gopher at Blue Skies. I consoled myself by dreaming of the pimpmobile I'd buy
some day.

    One
winter afternoon, as I was strolling beneath the porticoes, I stopped to look
into the window of a shoe store. It belonged to a dealer who had the twin vices
of dancers and blow. At the cash register I spotted a gorgeous woman about
forty. Blond, turned-up nose, fleshy lips, blue eyes. I shifted over to the
next window to see her better. She wore a close- fitting black suit and shoes
with the steepest heels. I went inside to try on a pair of moccasins I didn't
need. Worked it so she'd have to help me. She had a faint net of wrinkles
around her eyes and the no-nonsense look of a woman who made it the hard way. I
learned her name was Flora. Flirted a little and bought the shoes. I came back
over the next few days, and when her husband wasn't there, I took advantage of
it and went inside to shoot the breeze with her. She was less and less nice.
One morning she checked to make sure there were no customers and told me
point-blank to cut out bothering her. She spoke in dialect and used expressions
as tough as slaps. I grumbled a few words of apology and slipped out the door.
Tried to forget about her, but day after day Flora became my obsession. I went
to sleep and woke up thinking about her. One night I ran into her husband at
the club. He wanted some coke on credit, and right then I saw how I’d get his
wife into bed. I started to supply him with drugs and girls, assuring him he
could pay at his convenience. He let the machine chew him up like a real idiot.
Then one day I went to see him in his store. I waved him over. Flora was there
too. I winked at her.

    "Your
account has hit ten thousand. Time to settle up."

    He
turned pale. "I don't have it. You've got to be patient."

    "I
can be as patient as you like," I lied, feigning sympathy. "The
problem is the Barese. You know how he is, a fucking southerner, and when
somebody doesn't pay, it's like a bug up his ass. You'll get a little visit
from the Romanians, who'll break your arms and legs. This is the way it
works."

    "Help
me, please," he whined, desperate.

    "In
a week the balance will double. You know how these things go. You're not a kid
anymore."

    "Help
me. We're friends."

    I
made as if I was keeping an eye on the store. "Who's that looker?" I
asked, pointing at Flora.

    "She's
my wife," he answered, surprised.

    I
grabbed his arm and squeezed it hard.

    "Now
you know how I can help you."

    I
loosened my grip and left.

    He
didn't show up that night. A few days later, as I was leaving the club at four
in the morning, a car flashed its lights to catch my attention. I strolled
over. It was Flora's Hyundai coupe. She rolled down the window.

    "I'll
follow you home," she said without feeling.

    I
showed her into the living room. She took off her fur. "Do you want to
screw me here or in bed?" Her tone was disagreeable.

    "Beat
it," I hit back, irritated. "Tell your husband to come up with twenty
grand by tomorrow or the Romanians'll show up. At the store. So the whole
town'll know how he pissed away his money."

    She
raised her arms in a gesture of surrender.

    The
babe had to be tamed. I decided to lay it on thick by throwing her out of the
house.

    I
left her in the cold for some twenty minutes. She didn't move. She just kept
ringing the bell.

    "Beat
it," I repeated through the intercom.

    "Let
me in. Somebody might see me."

    I
pressed the buzzer and went over to the couch. When she came in, I patted the
seat next to me. I caressed her face with the back of my hand, then slipped it
under her short leather skirt and started fiddling with the elastic of her
thigh-highs.

    "You're
decked out like a real slut," I snickered to insult her.

    She
lowered her face. "This is what I have to do to save the store and our
reputations. Mine and my asshole husband's. Just how long does this thing have
to go on?"

    "Till
your husband pays up. Minus the interest, of course. You pay that."

    "On
one condition: my husband mustn't set foot in that club ever again."

    "It's
a deal." I gave in, although in fact the thought had already crossed my
mind. I couldn't risk letting the sap go around blabbing about the debt,
wrecked on coke and alcohol. The owner would get wind of everything.

    I moved
close to kiss her.

    She
pushed me back. "No, no kissing."

    Her
rebuff turned me on even more. I forced her to look me in the eyes. "We
make like two kids on their first date or the deal's off."

    The thing
with Flora fucked with my concentration. Whenever I thought about her, my cock
got hard, and when I couldn't wait till nighttime, I showed up at the store
during the lunch break, hung around till the salesgirls left, and banged her
among the stacks of boxes in the back room.

    Two
Romanian dancers turned up at the club, but I didn't pay attention, charging
them the usual percentage for the private sessions. It stands to reason they'd
immediately go and tell the gorillas about it. At the end of the night the
Barese came up to me, smiling, and asked me to join him in his office. The
gorillas broke my left arm. The bone made a noise like a snapped branch. The
pain was unbearable. I threw up on the carpet. Paid for my weakness by taking a
punch in the fractured arm. Then they sat me in a chair in front of the owner.

    "You
devised an ingenious scheme, I must admit," he congratulated me as he
examined the nails on his pinkies. "And intelligent people deserve
respect. This is why I told the Romanians to rough you up just a little. The
girls already get enough. You'll continue to collect the ten percent on every
private session. But you'll put it in the cash box. The next time I catch you
with your hand in the cookie jar you'll wind up dead and buried. The boys are
very skillful at digging deep holes."