Michael Dibdin - Cosi Fan Tutti

'Meanwhile, here's a look at the competition/ he said.

The two prostitutes scrutinized the photographs closely.

'God, that hair!' cried Iolanda.

'And those clothes!' added Libera.

"Those ghastly ear-rings!'

'That posture!'

'They definitely need a girlfriend to take them in hand 'To take them shopping, too.'

'But the guys are really cute!'

'What a waste!'

Libera looked at Zen.

'It's a deal/ she said.

'So the money's not a problem?'

Iolanda sniffed haughtily.

'It's not a question of money/ 'It's an act of charity/ explained Libera. 'To see two virile young men throw themselves away on a couple of homely figlie 'e mamma like that…'

'It'll be a pleasure to show them what a real woman is like!' said Iolanda.

'But how exactly are we to go about this?' asked Libera.

With a cautious glance all around, Zen lowered his voice and began to outline the details of his plan. Not that anyone was listening. In fact the bar had emptied considerably by now. The travellers had left to catch their trains, the railwaymen had returned to work, and the cleaning crew were on their way out too, apparently in response to a pager which one of them had clipped to the breast pocket of his overalls. Only the elderly whore remained slumped over her table, gazing morosely into her glass of wine.

The street cleaners climbed into their orange truck, which drove off along the main avenue for some distance before turning into a side-street riddled with deep potholes.

The only illumination here, apart from the truck's headlights, came from the open fires of the prostitutes spaced at intervals along the pavement. And one of them, at least, appeared to be doing some business. A large saloon was parked at the kerb near her pitch, the engine still running. From the driver's window, a man beckoned to the thin, slight woman leaning against the wall at the corner. With an odd gesture, half-shrug and half-wave, she walked over to the car.

About fifty yards farther back another car stood beside the kerb, its lights off and the engine silent. It might at first sight have appeared to be the scene of a similar encounter, but one which had progressed beyond the stage of negotiations. It would have taken a very keen observer to notice that the car had only one occupant, who was sitting bolt upright behind the wheel, looking straight ahead, with occasional glances in the rear-view mirror. As the garbage truck came into view he switched on the ignition and pumped the brake pedal three times.

The headlights behind flicked momentarily to high beam.

Meanwhile the 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 that without bothering to explain to her what was happening.

She was only a whore, after all.

It was only then that she noticed the set of keys dangling from the steering column. He must have been so angry and shocked by the accident that he'd forgotten about them, just taken off/leaving her alone with about sixty million lire's worth of luxury import.

She opened the door, slipped in behind the wheel and started the motor, which hummed obediently into life.

The woman sat there, thinking rapidly. The owner had almost certainly never seen her before, and if she didn't return to her pitch for a while he would never be able to trace her. As for the car, she could make that disappear equally effectively. They'd rip her off on its true value, of course, but even so she and the kids should be able to live on the proceeds for a year or so, maybe more. Fate had thrown this prize her way. She'd be an ungrateful fool not to accept it. It could only bring bad luck.

With a slight scraping sound from the rear wheels, the car moved away, its lights dwindling rapidly in the distance.

A moment later the street was completely deserted.

Indeed, the only sign that anyone had been there at all was a rectangle of orange paper lying in the gutter, as though discarded at random, strade pulite read the big black headline. Underneath there was a logo of some sort, and the bold slogan 'ANew Start for a New City'.