Death of a Showgirl Read Online Free PDF Page B

nodded.
    ‘How do you know? You don’t clean the room yourself, do you?’ He looked like the kind of person who would leave a room dirtier just for being in it.
    ‘A girl comes in. She changed both beds this morning.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘I asked her. I was curious about the odd couple.’
    ‘Why odd?’
    He rolled his eyes, bored of the questions. ‘He was gnarled and ugly. She was young and beautiful. The only time a couple like that get together is when he’s rich. This guy wasn’t. So I just wondered what was going on. I asked the cleaning girl and she told me they’d used separate beds.’
    I poked around the cheap furniture, pulling out drawers and opening cupboards and wardrobes. They wobbled feebly each time I pulled a handle. Their plastic laminate smelt of too much disinfectant. The bathroom was empty. There was a shower cubicle that looked half the size of a telephone kiosk. A thin miniature soap was wrapped up, ready for the next sad resident. There was a plastic bin with a translucent liner. Nothing of interest.
    ‘What happened to the rubbish?’
    ‘It goes in the wheelie bins in the basement. But today was rubbish day so it’s already gone.’
    ‘Nice place,’ I said sarcastically.
    ‘Wasn’t always like this. Used to be a very fashionable place twenty, thirty years ago.’
    ‘Yeah?’ I said sceptically.
    ‘Yeah. Used to have people begging to be allowed in. We used to host major conferences and gala events and parties. It used to be the perfect place for a party before they built all those new swank places right on the seafront. The parties we used to have.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘Incredible parties. Stuff going on you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I would walk along this corridor and I would see naked girls going from one room to the next.’
    ‘Must have been nice for you.’
    ‘We used to have all the stars here. You remember Alberto Grilli, the guy who presented that game show back in the eighties? He was a regular. Always tipped like a king. Great guy, Alberto. And there was Beppe Anselmi, the actor. We’ve got a signed photo of him downstairs.’
    He went on like that, trying to persuade me that this place used to be a Mecca for stars back in the day. He led me back downstairs and showed me a gallery of framed signed photographs of people I had never heard of. He described their TV shows or films, and what they used to eat and tip and their taste in girls.
    I wasn’t sure if it was all just talk. Most of the bars round here have photos of stars. It seems to be standard décor. And most pizzerie have one or two pizzas named after footballers or actors so that they can make out they’re regular customers.
    ‘Why did they come here?’ I looked around with disdain.
    ‘They were all friends of Mario.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mario. The owner. Mario Di Angelo.’ He said it impatiently like I was slow. The name rang a bell.
    ‘Who’s that?’
    ‘The senator. He owns TV Sogni.’
    ‘And he owns this place?’
    ‘Sure. Has done ever since I came to work here thirty years ago. Whenever he wanted to throw a party, he would do it here. Used to bring all his showbiz friends along, all their girls.’
    ‘That so?’
    ‘He knew the meaning of the word largesse. He used to pay for everything. He’s the most generous man, always giving presents to people, always offering to do something for you. He looks after everyone. Makes sure everyone’s having a good time.’
    ‘That why he went into politics?’
    He heard the sarcasm and his face dropped once more. He looked older and more tired suddenly.
    ‘Give me that fifty and I can go back to bed.’
    ‘Why did the parties stop?’
    He looked pensive for once. He was staring at the floor and brought his shoulders up to his ears. ‘They didn’t stop,’ he said slowly, ‘they just moved elsewhere. A man like Mario isn’t one to slow down, believe me.’ He smiled, still staring at the floor. Then he snapped out of the