Cosi Fan Tutti - 5 by Michael Dibdin

skinny prostitute and her prospective client had concluded the preliminaries. She got into the back seat of the car, a luxury import of some kind, which immediately pulled away from the kerb. The street was deserted and the truck had plenty of room to pass, but it unaccountably failed to pull over, ramming the rear of the car with a jarring shock and a loud metallic crunch.
    The driver of the saloon got out, waving his arms and exclaiming angrily. A middle-aged man conventionally dressed in a suit and overcoat, he was clearly both
    shocked and hopping mad, as well he might be. Even a superficial inspection of the damage was enough to show that some extremely expensive bodywork was involved here. The crew of the truck also descended from their cab, three of them all together.
    ‘What the fuck do you think you were doing?’ the first man shouted angrily. ‘Are you trying to pretend you didn’t see me? If you assholes lose nothing but your jobs, you can count yourselves lucky!’
    And so on, for some considerable time. When he finally paused for breath, one of the crew leaned forward confidentially.
     
     
    “I understand how you feel, dottore. The fault was entirely ours, no question about it. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do your reputation any good if it were known
    that you were hanging around an area like this at this time of night, right? So why don’t we try and work out some mutually agreeable solution?’
    The car driver started to splutter some suitably crushing reply, but broke off as the logic of the other man imposed itself. Everyone in Naples knew that single men in smart cars only came down here at night for one reason.
    His wife wouldn’t be too happy, nor her influential family, to say nothing of his so-called ‘allies’ in the political arena. And as for the press, they’d have a field day,
    particularly if one of his former partners in pleasure should take it into her head to earn a hefty bonus by detailing some of the more esoteric requests with which, for a fat fee, she had reluctantly complied.
    The garbage-disposal man glanced significantly at the woman waiting in the car, then gestured towards the back of the truck.
    ‘Let’s get out of earshot, dottore/ he whispered. I’ve got a proposal which I think will satisfy you, but it wouldn’t do for us to be overheard.’
    In the back seat of the car, the prostitute sat tapping her crossed legs in a bored fashion. The things some men get off on! She thought she’d heard it all, and for that matter done most of it, but this one had ideas she’d never even imagined. Still, he was prepared to pay, and this car - she stroked the leather seats - proved that he had the necessary.
    She would make more tonight than the whole rest of the week. Maybe she could even treat herself to a few days off, spend some time with the children.
    She turned as the orange truck started up with a roar and drove away, disappearing round the corner. A moment later another car passed by and turned into the same street, some small domestic compact not to be mentioned in the same breath as the padded, perfumed limousine in which she sat waiting for her client to reappear, having sorted out this annoying accident, and drive them to the place he said he has nearby, with all the necessary equipment set up and ready to use.
    Only he didn’t reappear. And when she looked round again, the street appeared to be empty. Reluctantly, she climbed out of the car. There was no one in sight. For a moment she felt a sense of relief at the thought that she wasn’t going to have to go through with it after all. Then she remembered the money, its loss all the more bitter
    since she had already spent it in anticipation.
    But what about the car? No one, however rich, was going to go off leaving a machine like that behind, even with a badly damaged wing. Clearly her client must have gone off with the cleaning crew to phone for a tow-truck or something. Typical that he should just vanish like