James Chase - Mission to Siena

“Right, I’ll talk to her. Now about this girl with the red hair. Her first name is Lorelli. Will you try to get me information about her? It’s worth a hundred pounds to anyone who can put me on to her.”

Uccelli inclined his head. “I will do what I can.”

Don got to his feet.

“I’ll see if I can get anything out of Gina Pasero,” he said. “What does she do at the club?”

“She is a dance hostess. You will be very careful,” Uccelli said. “This could be a dangerous business. You are dealing with men who do not value life. Remember that. If it is thought you are showing an interest in their activities, they will wipe you out.”

“Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself,” Don said. “Find out about this red-head for me.”

“I will do what I can. Be careful of Shapiro. He is very dangerous.”

“I’ll watch out. Thanks for the wonderful dinner. I’ll look in in a day or so.”

“Leave it a few days. Information is not always easy to get.” Uccelli looked at Don. “And it is understood that anything I have told you is for your own use and is not to be given to the police?”

“That’s all right,” Don said. “I’ll keep it to myself.”

Leaving the restaurant, he walked briskly up Firth Street until he came to a door, over which was a neon sign that spelt out in blood-red letters:

FLORIDA CLUB: Members only.

Having paid a pound for a temporary member’s ticket to a flat-nosed doorman, Don descended a flight of dirty stone steps that led to a shabby bar. Beyond the bar he could see a dimly lit room containing thirty or forty tables, a three-piece band and a small space in the middle of the floor for dancing.

He paused at the bar as he knew it was expected of him and ordered a whisky. Two blondes and a long-haired man in a check suit with enormously padded shoulders were propped up against the bar, drinking neat gin. They stared at Don with undisguised curiosity.

Don ignored them. He lit a cigarette and toyed with his drink for a few minutes until two more men drifted out of the restaurant and joined the others at the bar. Then finishing his drink, he went into the restaurant.

The pianist, saxophone and drums combination was playing in a half-hearted way. Three couples were moving about the floor in time with the music, but with no other claim to dancing. One of the men held a glass of whisky in his hand as he shuffled around the floor. His partner, a hard-faced girl with copper-coloured hair, was smoking.

Don went to a table in a corner and sat down. Nearby was a small dais enclosed by a rail. Behind the rail were three girls who were smoking and staring with blank boredom across the room.

A waiter in a grubby white coat came over to Don.

“Straight whisky,” he said.

The waiter nodded and went away.

The band stopped playing. The couples on the floor didn’t bother to clap. They drifted back to their tables and a funereal hush fell over the room.

Don thought the Florida Club was in a class of its own as a sordid slice of dull night life.

He glanced again at the girls behind the rail and decided the dark girl with a rose in her hair could be Gina Pasero. She was small-featured and pretty in a hard, sophisticated way. The shadows under her dark eyes gave her an interestingly dissipated look. She was wearing a red and black evening dress cut so low Don could see the tops of her firm, young breasts. She sat motionless, her hands folded in her lap. If her eyes hadn’t been open, he would have thought she was asleep.

The waiter brought the whisky and Don paid him. The two blondes came in from the bar and sat opposite Don’s table.

They stared fixedly at him.

Five leaden minutes crawled by, then the pianist began to play. After the third bar the saxophone and drums joined in as if they were doing the pianist a favour.

Don went over to the dais.

“Do you think you have enough strength left to dance with me?” he asked the girl with the rose in her hair.

The other two girls giggled, looking at him, crude invitation in their eyes.

The girl with the rose in her hair got up and came round the rail. She moved listlessly and she made no attempt to conceal her boredom. Don put his arm round her and moved her out on to the floor. He found it impossible to do more than shuffle around the floor. The lagging beat of the drum made any attempt to dance a farce.

After a minute or so of shuffling, Don said, “I bet this is where undertakers come to relax.”

The girl didn’t say anything. Don could only see the top of her sleek head. She seemed content to let him push her before him and keep her nose close to his gold tie-clip.

They circled the room, then Don said, “Don’t let me stop you sleeping. Just rest your feet on mine and have yourself a quiet time.”

The girl leaned back to stare up at him. At that angle he could look down the front of her dress, but he was too well-mannered to stare. The girl’s shadowy black eyes expressed irritation and weariness.

“Let it lie, Jack,” she said in a cold, brittle voice.

“Certainly,” Don said. “Just let me know if I’m driving too fast for you.”

“If you don’t like the way I dance you know what you can do about it,” the girl said, her voice hardening.

Switching from English into Italian, Don said, “I know what I would like to do, but this is hardly the place.”

Boredom, irritation and weariness went away from the girl’s face. Her eyes became alive. Her red, sensual lips curved into a smile.

“How did you know?” she said. “No one has spoken to me in Italian for years.”

“I’m psychic,” Don said, smiling at her.

She pursed her red lips.

“I think you’re tight.”

“That’s an idea. Shall we stop this depressing shuffling and see what we can do about it?”

“That’s up to you. It’ll still cost you a pound an hour.”

“Think nothing of it,” Don said, leading her back to his table. “I’m made of money. What’ll it be?”

She ordered the inevitable champagne and Don ordered another whisky. When the drinks had been served, he asked her from what part of Italy she had come.

“I was bom in Naples,” she told him. “I married an American soldier who brought me to London. We hadn’t been here two weeks before a taxi knocked him down and killed him.”

“Tough luck,” Don said.

She shrugged.

“He wasn’t much. I was glad to be rid of him.”

“You must have been pretty young when you married.”

She laughed.

“I was fifteen. There were eighteen in my family. We lived in four rooms. I was pretty glad to get out.” She smiled at him. “You’re American, aren’t you? How did you learn to speak Italian so well?”

“My father lived most of his life in Florence. I spent a lot of time with him. What’s your name?”

“Call me Gina.”

She began to tell him about Naples. He could see she was badly homesick and he let her talk. After she had worked through half the bottle of champagne and the wine had relaxed her, he said casually, “By the way, how’s Ed these days?”

She continued to smile, but the light went out of her eyes. After a second or so, the effort of keeping the smile on her lips proved too much of an effort. Her face reverted to a cold, expressionless mask.

“What do you know about Ed?” she asked harshly.

“I want to talk to him. I’ve been looking all over for him. Where’s he got to?”

“How should I know?” She reached for her bag. “I’ve got to go. I can’t spend all the evening with you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Don said, smiling at her. “I’ve got a deal. I want to gut in Ed’s way. It won’t wait. It’s worth fifty pounds to anyone who can tell me where he is.”