I’m in the middle of the guys’ age range. They’re mostly dressed like me. Some of the younger ones are more fashion-forward, with more assertive colors and aggressive tailoring, but the older ones look like they drove straight here from the boardroom with their mistresses (or to find new ones).
Carson’s at the upper end of the women’s ages, except for a few obvious first wives still successfully strutting their stuff. Just like a Beverly Hills party. There’s a superabundance of short, tight skirts and dresses, sheers, metallics, plunging necklines and stripper heels, not so much saturated colors or prints. A lot to look at. Carson’s dress is about par.
I spot a bar through the glass elevator core to our left. “Let’s get a drink,” I yell into Carson’s ear. It’s the only way to get past the music.
The first twenty yards or so are magic. The crowd just melts away in front of us. I see a lot of eyes swiveling toward Carson. This can work, I think. We’ll pull it off.
Then I realize she’s paying as much attention to the women as I am. Her eyes are darting now, not scanning. Every time we pass a spectacular example of Italian womanhood, Carson shrinks a little. “See all the security,” she growls in my ear, “or are you just looking at tits?”
Yes, there’s a lot of really well-designed cleavage on display here. However, I manage to notice the herd of wire-in-the-ear guys circulating around the edges of the crowd. It’s like they’re all punched out of the same factory: hardly any hair, round heads, thick necks, black suits, bulges under their arms or in their waistbands. This must’ve been what parties looked like at Saddam Hussein’s palace.
The sea isn’t parting anymore. We edge our way through the milling, mingling, networking people, saying “scusi” a lot. That meerkat feeling’s creeping up on me now that our invincibility shield’s melted. Carson’s slowing down, hanging onto my hand like I’m the boat taking her waterskiing. Her face gets darker every minute.
As we bash our way through, I notice a lot fewer obvious couples than I’d expected. People who’ve been together a while can stand close but not pay attention to each other. Here there’s lots of intense eye contact, flirting, hair-twirling. It’s a meat market. From the looks I’m getting from some of the women we pass, I’m on the menu.
Bet they wouldn’t be so hot on me if they knew my entire life fits in fourteen boxes.
We finally reach a freestanding, hosted portable bar. AIL’s laying out the bucks for this party, though after a 60% overrun, they can afford to. I hand Carson a double scotch and peck at my vodka rocks. She downs half her drink in one gulp.
Uh-oh. She did that Monday night. She’s probably an angry drunk. That’s the last thing we need now.
Carson’s eyes still haven’t stopped moving. She finishes off her scotch with another rough toss of her head, then gets her own refill. When that one half-disappears in seconds, I touch her shoulder to get her attention. She flinches, then glares at me.
“Slow down.” I use as calm a voice as I can at almost a full yell. “It’s going to be a long night.”
She motions for me to bend closer. It’s a summons, not a request. “Isn’t gonna work.”
That’s not what I’d expected to hear. “What isn’t?”
“See these women?” She waves her glass toward the crowd. “Guy like Hoskins, he’d have one of them, not some pug like me.”
Hell of a time for her to get self-conscious. I hear what she’s saying—with low nine figures behind him, Hoskins can buy the most beautiful woman in Milan outright. Still, it’s too late to figure this out. “Don’t worry—”
“You don’t get it.” She Vise-Grips the back of my neck and hauls my head down to her mouth level. “Gotta get to Rossi. You don’t, we’re back at square one. I’ll fuck this up by not looking like a swimsuit model.”
No no no don’t do this now… People are starting to notice us. We must look like we’re fighting. Just then, a Green Day-ish anthem crossfades into a ballad by an Italian Leonard Cohen. I snatch Carson’s glass out of her hands, drop both our drinks on the tray next to the bar, then hustle her out onto the clear patch that doubles as a dance floor.
She squawks when I pull her into a clinch. “What the—”
“Just whisper sweet nothings to me and look natural.” I let her scowl fly past me. “You said you’ve done undercover before.”
“Yeah. Bars. Warehouses. Semis. I belonged there. Here? Had no idea this was gonna be all Miss Universe. Wouldn’t’ve come up with this if I did.”
The confidence is draining out of her eyes. Janine used to get like this, but I never expected it from Carson. “Do I need to tell you how many dudes have been checking out your butt as you go by?”
She snorts. “My ass isn’t the problem. Look at me.”
I push her away enough to twirl her twice, then reel her back in. It’s like dragging a stick through wet sand. “Stop fighting me. We’re dancing—I lead. And you look great.”
“Up here.” She tilts up her chin. “You got the rich-guy clothes. Talk the rich-guy talk. Don’t have the rich-guy woman. I don’t fit the picture. Gianna does. Go hook up with her.”
I stop moving. It takes her a couple steps to notice. When she frowns up at me, I say, “First, when we’re dancing, I’m in charge. So take a deep breath and loosen up. Now.”
She gives me a scalding look, but she does it.
I push her right hand back and forth until her body starts to swivel. “Now move with me.”
Carson actually has some rhythm. It takes a few steps to kick in, but suddenly I’m dancing with a woman and not a fencepost. And it’s not bad at all.
It doesn’t solve the problem, though. I can’t tell if all this is about the job or her face. As usual, I can’t read her. So I try something radical—the truth. “Look… I know I told you I’m okay doing this alone, but I’m not. I need you to watch my back. I need you to notice the things I don’t. Gianna can’t do that. I need… you.”
Her lips press flat. She looks away, then back to me. “Never get that far. One look at me, they’ll know something’s wrong. I’ll leave, it’s okay.”
Shit. We’re back to that. The ballad turns into Italian R.E.M., which isn’t slow-dance music. I wrap an arm around her waist and lead her to the sidelines. “Put your arms around me.” She does, in a hugging-the-maybe-pedophile-uncle way. “Like you like me.” After a few seconds, she unwinds a bit and hooks her thumbs over the back of my belt. “Close enough. Who are you supposed to be right now?”
Carson squints at me. “Hoskins’ bed buddy.”
“Right. Now think: what can you do for him that these chicks—” I jerk my head to the side, toward the bar line “—can’t?”
She growls and rolls her eyes. “Fuck him?”
“So can any of them. What can you do that they can’t? What gives you power?”
“I don’t know. What is this?”
“Building your character. You’re playing a role, this is your motivation. Didn’t you do this for your undercover work?”
She sputters a bit. “All my covers… they were me, different name. No role to play.”
Aha. “Then make this one you, too. Answer, don’t think: what can you do that they can’t?”
“Walk away.”
I’m about to blow off that answer, but then I understand it. “Yes. You can walk away. What does that mean? Again, answer, don’t think.”
“Don’t need Hoskins.” Her answer seems to surprise her as much as me. “I want him, don’t need him.”
Yes! “Great. He’s this rich dude, but you own him. How often do you think he’s run into that lately?”
She snorts. “Never.”
“Right. You know what that looks like?” This is where either I hit her “on” switch, or she walks out. “When we walked in, you were the baddest tiger in the jungle. Bulletproof confidence. You have any clue how sexy that is? That’s what Hoskins wants. That’s who you are.” I kiss her
forehead and step back. Her eyes get really big. “And that’s what they’ll see.”
The closest thing to a smile I’ve ever seen on Carson climbs onto her lips. She nods. Her body slowly unwinds from its defensive stoop. When she looks around again, her laser scanners are back up. She’s not quite there yet, but she’s trying.
We case the joint, me critiquing the architecture, Carson trying to count the security bulls, both of us looking for the Morrones. The DJ on the stage at the other end of the hall keeps the hits going, shifting smoothly from one cut to the next. They’re all familiar even though I’ve never heard any of them before. I can chart the level of alcohol consumption by the growing number of dancers. I’m watching for Gianna… and Belknap. He’s out there somewhere.
Up ahead, I see the purest possible distillation of school-bus yellow flashing through all the black, white and gray. When the next break in the flock appears, I recognize the face attached to all that sunniness.
Gianna spots me, smiles, then slithers through the crowd toward us. She’s wearing what looks an awful lot like a sleeveless ‘60s go-go dress, complete with knee-high white boots. It’s short. Very, very short. I totally ignore her thighs. No, I don’t.
“Rick!” she squeaks, and suddenly she’s giving me the Euro two-cheek air-kiss and squeezing my shoulders. “I look for you. I am happy you come.” Her smile dims a few watts. “Miss Carson. You are here. Buona sera.”
Carson’s standing at her full height with her shoulders squared, chest out, and that queen-of-the-jungle expression. If she had a tail, it’d be twice its normal width. Finally—the Carson I brought here is back. “Miss Comici.” She holds out a hand. It reminds me of van Breek just before he mashed my face into a wall.
Gianna senses the air temperature and gives Carson’s hand a quick shake. The look Carson’s giving her ought to catch her on fire. She’s got height, weight and reach on Gianna, so my money’s on Carson if the claws come out.
“Where’s Lorenzoni?” I ask once Gianna circles to my Carson-free side.
“There.” She waves toward the far corner. “He talks to women. He says it is for business, but…” She stands on tiptoe, leaning against my arm, which feels pretty okay. “Why is she here?”
“Because I want her here.” It comes out harder than I meant, but about right for Hoskins.
The look Gianna gives Carson tells me they won’t be drinking buddies soon.
“Have you seen Rossi?”
“Yes, I show you. Come.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the main staircase. But Carson has a lock on my arm; I’m not going anywhere. She waits until Gianna turns and drops my hand before we start walking. Maybe Carson took me a little too seriously.
We dodge conversation groups and dancers and at least four security guys before we reach the bottom of the stairs. “There.” Gianna points. “Do you see the window?”
I do. There’s a broad floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the staircase at the first-floor level. Soft, indirect lighting inside the room picks out a dozen people milling around behind the tinted glass. “Which one?”
“Wait.” We wait. People circulate. “There! That is Rossi.”
A man wearing a vest and tie stands with his hands on the railing inside the glass. I pull out my phone and pretend to take some pictures, then focus on the window and zoom in as far as I can. “The guy with the vest? You’re sure?”
“Si. Yes. That is Rossi, I am certain.”
My heart misfires.
Carson grabs the phone from me, peers at it, refocuses. “Fuck.”
Gianna looks at us like we’re both nuts. “What is wrong? Do you know him?”
We know him.
“Rossi” is Salvatore Morrone. Capo bastone of the Milanese locale of the ‘Ndrangheta.
Chapter 31
Shit. Rossi’s supposed to be some mid-level dude, somebody I can talk to without every cop in Italy watching.
On the other hand, if the ‘Ndrangheta has the hot art, Morrone’s gotta know where it is.
“I’m gonna kill that bastard,” Carson yells in my ear.
Oh, great. “That’s not the plan.”
“So what’s the plan?”
Good question. I remember something Carson said when I was wrestling with her on the dance floor: I don’t fit the picture. Gianna does. Go hook up with her.
And here she is. I still feel Gianna’s body pressing against me from a few minutes ago and I’d like a repeat. But I still need Carson to make sure I survive this. Also, do I want Gianna seeing me be even sleazier than I really am? Does she need to know who that nice Mr. Rossi really is?
But… if guns start pointing at me up there, will Carson be holding one of them?
Decide.
“Same as before,” I finally tell Carson. “We go talk to the man. ‘We’ means you and me.” I step back to Gianna without waiting for Carson to react. “Will you do something for me?”
Gianna tilts up her head and turns those bottomless dark eyes on me.
Marry me dances around the tip of my tongue. Instead, I pull a business card from my wallet and press it into her warm, soft hand. “You’ve met Rossi. Can you introduce us?”
Her eyebrows climb halfway up her forehead. She glances at the card, then the window, then me, then Carson, then me again. “I have the supper with you. Alone. Yes?”
No doubt to butter me up about the gallery loan, but at this point, I’m okay with anything she suggests. “Tomorrow night?”
Gianna gives me a quick kiss, then taps my chin with the card. “I go to Rossi. Please stay.”
Watching her climb the stairs in that dress is… inspirational. When Gianna’s halfway up the second flight, Carson steps next to me. She’s sucking her virtual lemon. “Why don’t you two just get a room?”
“Play nice. We still need her.”
“We need her, or you need her?”
“This girlfriend thing. It’s cover, right? You’re not jealous?”
She shoots me a “drop it” look.
We wait for either Gianna to come back, or a squad of security apes to haul us away. Belknap’s bald head sticks out of the crowd half the building’s length away. The way he moves tells me he’s dancing. Knowing him, it’s with some woman half his age. Fine. If he’s busy scamming her, he won’t bother me. I hope.
“Here she comes,” Carson says.
Two goons trail Gianna down the stairs. She’s moving on her own, so they’re not taking her out back to shoot her. The worrying thing is seeing Belknap watch her. I realize how exposed that second flight of stairs is. It’ll be like walking on the red carpet for the Oscars.
The goons stay behind on the broad landing above us while Gianna swings down the last steps straight to me. She sets her hands on my chest and goes up on tiptoes. “Rossi will see you. I tell him you are a rich man looking for a painting to love.” She presses against me a bit tighter. “Ring me.” With one last back-off-bitch-he’s-mine glare for Carson, she disappears into the crowd. Carson gives her a look that scares me.
After wanding us both, the goons escort us upstairs. Carson maneuvers to my left side to screen me from the party floor. The last thing I need is for Belknap to see me here. Every step has a climbing-to-the-guillotine feel.
Instead of a public execution, though, we end up in a conference room. Its black-granite slab of a table holds a huge spread of food. Plush black-leather chairs line the white hand-troweled walls. Five large contemporary canvases—color-field work, nobody I recognize—hang under individual halogen spots. The indirect lighting we saw from outside defines the edge of the ceiling coffer above the table.
The racket outside left me half deaf. It takes a few moments for the gentle rustle of low conversation to dig through the ringing in my ears.
About a dozen people are here, a couple more men than women. The men are the middle-aged-businessman-here-after-work types, mostly gathered around the bar talking about manly things
. The women are half their age, wear half the clothing, and are clustered around the food on the table, talking and ignoring the men. Most aren’t old enough to have to work at being pretty.
One who is—an elegant dark redhead, freckles across her collarbones, knee-length black sheath with a square neckline—zeroes in on me. What does she see? A target? A fellow scammer? I give her a slight nod and silently wish her luck. She’s got a lot of competition, and she’ll have to work hard to beat it.
A thirtyish dark blonde in a steel-gray Armani suit strides up to us. She stops, puts one foot in front of the other, and hides her hands behind her back. I expect her to sing an aria. Instead she says, “You are Mr. Hoskins?” A slight accent, brisk, businesslike. The gatekeeper?
“I am.”
“Please come.” She turns and marches toward the windows.
“Play nice,” I whisper in Carson’s ear. “I need Morrone talking.”
Carson fries me with a glance, then takes my arm. We follow the blonde to Salvatore Morrone.
“Signore Hoskins.” He’s a baritone. “Benvenuto.”
This isn’t my first gangster. That doesn’t make it any easier. Gar and I were always super careful around these dudes, more honest than with anybody else. If these guys don’t like a deal, they don’t sue or complain to the BBB—they put you in the trunk of a car going to the crusher. If you’re lucky, they’ll shoot you first.
I turn my back to the window and wipe my palm on my pants leg before we trade manly handshakes.
Thick hands. Mid-to-late fifties. Salt-and-pepper hair, freshly cut, extra salt around the ears. A heavy-featured, late DeNiro face. Aggressive eyes. The pewter-with-white-pinstripes vest and slacks are Italian design, but the way they drape over his broad shoulders and sturdy chest makes me think they’re custom. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he owns a company that does physical things—construction, trucking, meat packing—and he started at the bottom.
“Americano!” he says, beaming. His teeth are better than I expect. “I like Americani. Always so busy, making the money, making the things, changing the things.” His hand turns a circle, like the hamster wheel he’s describing. He points toward the young man behind his left shoulder. “This is Angelo, my son. He learns the business. He teaches the English to me. He teaches me good, si?”
The Collection Page 17
