A Pimp's Notes Read Online Free PDF

of drawers. Cigarettes, wallet, pager, the rumpled money I pried out of Daytona. A blinking red light on the phone tells me there are messages on my answering machine. I push PLAY , and as I unbutton my shirt I listen to the rushing hiss of the rewinding tape.
    Then, the voices.
    Beep . A euphoric voice.
    “ Ciao, Bravo, it’s Barbara. I’m on the French Riviera. The yacht is fantastic and this guy is so nice. He wants me to stay a couple more days, so I told him you could talk to him about terms. Thanks. Kisses, tall dark and handsome.”
    Beep . A cracking, damaged voice.
    “This is Lorella. I need to work. I really really do. I’m desperate. I just don’t know where to turn anymore. Please, call me.”
    Beep . A voice hidden in tears.
    “Bravo, it’s Laura. Something terrible has happened. I went out with Tulip. I couldn’t tell him no and he beat me up again. I’m afraid. One of these days that guy’s going to kill me. When you hear this message, call me. I don’t care what time it is. Talk to you soon.”
    My shirt flies over to join my jacket on the couch. The cleaning woman can take care of putting them away. I move from the living room and head down the hallway to the doors of my bedroom and bathroom.
    As I walk, I kick off my shoes and reflect.
    Barbara is an incredible young woman. Infatuated with the big city, head over heels in love with the good life, and pragmatic in a way that’s typical of someone who got only one gift from destiny: a spectacular physical appearance. We understand each other because we’re very similar in certain ways. We have an agreement and we get along fine.
    Lorella is a pretty girl. I gave her work for a while, until I found out that she was a drug addict. The people who call me, with the prices they pay, have a right to certain standards, and I can’t afford to send them women with holes in their arms, strung out on heroin. I didn’t even try to get her off drugs. I just dropped her, on the spot. I’ve watched girls like her slide downhill at alarming speed, and wind up behind Piazzale Lotto selling mouth, pussy, and asshole—a package deal for ten thousand lire. A waste of time, not worth the phone call.
    The situation with Laura is quite another matter, far more delicate. She works as a fashion model, at a level that’s not stratospheric but regular and reliable, and she rounds out her paycheck with other, more discreet earnings, thanks to my management. One night we went out together to the Ascot, and that’s where Salvatore Menno, aka Tulip, first saw her. They call him Tulip because in the winter, at Piazzale Brescia, he has a flower stand; in the summer it becomes a watermelon kiosk. That’s just a cover for his operations. Actually, he’s a hoodlum, a thug and a gangster in the orbit of Tano Casale, a mid-level boss who went head-to-head with Turatello and Vallanzasca for control of Milan. That asshole paid for one night with her, and then he started demanding a relationship free of charge, and immediately after that, he expected her to be faithful to him. The next step was when he started beating her up. Laura is just a woman like any other, and I don’t care about her as a person. But she’s a spectacular earner, and I can’t afford to have her face covered with bruises.
    I open the bathroom door and walk over to the toilet. I pass the mirror above the sink without glancing at myself. I undo my trousers and lower them, along with my underpants. I sit on the toilet and piss. For reasons entirely out of my control, in the past I’ve had to undergo surgical procedures that mean I can no longer pee standing up. Now I pee like a woman. Now I wipe myself with toilet paper after peeing, almost the same as a woman.
    I’m thinking about how to solve the problem of Laura and Tulip without getting either one of us killed. As I’m brushing my teeth, an idea occurs to me. I’ll have to have a talk with Tano Casale and propose a trade.
    On the one hand, this