A Pimp's Notes by Giorgio Faletti

was on the other end of one of the two phone calls I made from the restaurant.
    By the orange glow of the streetlights, he looks even blonder and more tan. He comes right to the point, and I swerve to accommodate.
    “What can I do for you?”
    “I need to talk to Tano Casale.”
    Among Micky’s many jobs, he drums up business for the gambling dens that the mob boss sets up and moves around with great cunning, popping up here and there around the city and the greater metropolitan area. Micky looks out at the street and a couple who are just slipping into the Ascot. He waits until they have disappeared from sight, as if they might have overheard what he was about to say.
    “When?”
    “Tonight.”
    “Why?”
    “I have an opportunity that might interest him.”
    He turns wary.
    “Bravo, this had better not be bullshit.”
    “Oh, it’s not. Take my word for it. You’ll see: he’ll be grateful that you and I both thought of him.”
    He thinks for a minute. Then he decides that I’m trustworthy and gives me this one chance.
    “All right. But I have to make a phone call first.”
    I nod.
    “Of course.”
    Micky looks at his watch, which is obviously gold and authentic. And I have to guess that, unlike Daytona, he has more than one.
    “I’ll meet you out here in an hour. If you don’t see me, it means I can’t arrange it for tonight. In that case, I’ll let you know when it’s possible.”
    “Roger. May the Force be with you.”
    I get out of the car and start toward the entrance of the club. The roar of the Ferrari’s eight cylinders accompanies me part of the way as the car screeches away, leaving ten thousand lire worth of rubber on the asphalt and the sound of the money spent reverberating in the air.
    I start down the stairs, and after a fairly short number of steps I’m in a cellar that has covered itself with glory by producing nearly all the big names in popular cabaret entertainment in northern Italy. Just past the entrance there’s a little salon, bounded on the left by the coat check, with cheap wall-to-wall carpeting, sofas, and lights, an area dedicated to killing time, where the usual clientele gathers to drink and smoke. In spite of the purposely drab aesthetics and a sense of institutional shabbiness, there’s a certain dose of magic in the air, a feeling of potential success, real success, the kind that can change your life without warning. It’s no secret that television and film producers in search of new talent come here first. For many, working at the Ascot will be the end of the road, but for a few others it’s only the beginning. Afterward, it becomes a difficult bond to break. There are evenings when the club becomes such a gathering place for famous comedians and hit singers, aside from the young actors and comics on the playbill, that if a bomb went off in that musty cellar, it would take out half the theater people in our laughable country.
    This is one of those evenings. The little room at the bottom of the stairs is full. The reputation of the Silly Dilly M. has attracted a big crowd, including a number of well-known show business professionals, here to satisfy their curiosity and to win the right to criticize after the show.
    There’s a line outside the cloakroom. The couple I saw coming in earlier is lingering to admire the posters tacked to the walls. Maybe they’re here from outside of Milan and they’re a little dazzled to be breathing the same oxygen as celebrities they’ve seen on television.
    I say hello to a few people, I let others say hello to me, and in the meantime I let my gaze roam the room until I spot her. Laura’s sitting on a couch, talking with a young man. If the experience with Tulip undermined her morale, it did nothing to dim her beauty. She looks like a young girl. She’s dressed in relaxed clothing, with a pair of jeans and a white blouse under a casual jacket made of dark blue canvas that doesn’t concede much to the fashion of the Year of Our