At the End of a Dull Day by Massimo Carlotto, Anthony Shugaar Page B

downturn, devastated now that the banks have turned off the faucet. You’re fifty years old and if you have to shut down your business you don’t know how you’ll make a living,” I summarized in a flat voice so I wouldn’t have to listen to the rest of the story of his life. “What can I do for you?”
    He rubbed his face with both hands. “I don’t want to have to fold my business,” he answered with tears in his voice.
    â€œSorry, I don’t make unsecured loans,” I told him.
    He shook his head and gulped down the cognac. “I’m looking for a partner.”
    â€œI’m not interested, I already have my hands full with La Nena,” I shot back. Then I pointed to a bundle of paper sticking out of his back pocket. “But I could help you clear out your warehouse.”
    He unfolded his inventory and laid it flat on the bar. I read through it. First-rate wines and liquor, no question about it. “If I buy it all, what kind of price would you offer?”
    He named a figure that was unquestionably fair and advantageous but which I had no intention of paying.
    I handed back the inventory. “That’s a good price but I can’t afford it. Not even on installments.”
    His eyes were like an open book. “If I don’t pay my suppliers soon no one will be willing to supply me with a single bottle of wine on credit.”
    â€œThen forget about trying to make money on it. You can’t afford to.”
    He nodded. The new price he named was much more affordable. I managed to clip a little more off the top and we shook hands on it. He turned down my offer of another glassful and walked out of the bar with his head pulled down between his shoulders.
    He was just one of many businessmen hunting desperately for a way to keep the family business out of bankruptcy. They were the ones who’d noticed too late that the good times were over and they hadn’t run for shelter early enough. More than one of them had wrapped a noose around their neck or run a vacuum cleaner hose from their tailpipe to their car window. The newspapers carried the reports and the politicians even pretended to care. If it weren’t for my little ring of whores, La Nena would have dragged me down to the bottom. To keep from winding up like that guy I’d have had to go back to making bank withdrawals with a pistol and a scrawled note. That was just one more reason to make sure that Brianese gave me back my money.
    I’d closed out the cash register some time ago and the cooks and waitstaff had already gone home when the Counselor stooped down to enter the restaurant under the half-closed metal roller shutter.
    He took a seat on a stool at the bar. “Are we alone?”
    â€œOf course. What are you drinking?”
    â€œNothing. I’m fine, thanks,” he replied before heading off to the back room.
    I poured myself a drink and took my time following him back.
    â€œWhat the fuck did you think you were going to achieve with that bloodbath in my house?” he launched into me, seething with rage.
    â€œWell, this for starters,” I replied, continuing my show of tranquility. “An open, honest exchange of ideas. I’m not going to say between friends, but at least between two people who respect one another and behave accordingly.”
    He smirked. “That’s it?”
    â€œCounselor, you never had the slightest intention of paying me back the two million euros you stole from me with the fake scam in Dubai,” I started to explain. “You were planning to string me along with just enough bullshit to keep me happy and when the time was up you weren’t planning to give me a cent. And you know why?”
    â€œI’m all ears,” he replied arrogantly.
    â€œBecause you made the mistake of continuing to think of me, with a healthy dose prejudice and contempt, as the man I once was, the man who first came to your office