For All the Gold in the World Read Online Free PDF

to be shit out of luck for the rest of eternity.”
    â€œGot it,” he blurted, and started walking again. “We can’t just look the other way.”
    â€œWe have our rules,” I pointed out.
    Max shot me an ironic little grin. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
    â€œAll right, okay,” I said, giving in. “I need a case. A dirty, difficult, dangerous case. Otherwise I’ll go to pieces, I’m already teetering on the edge.”
    â€œThen this one seems perfect to me,” the fat man commented.
    Â 
    After taking Max home I continued on toward Vicenza. Edoardo “Catfish” Fassio, a real blues expert, the only true Italian “blue-jay,” was spinning that night in a club in the provinces.
    I got there early. Catfish was eating a bowl of pasta. He waved me over to his table.
    â€œEveryone says the blues is dead but here we still are,” he said as he poured me a glass of red.
    â€œThe blues just don’t know how to give up.”
    We toasted to the devil’s music and he took the opportunity to give me the once-over. “You’ve got the face of someone who’s not going to make it unless he gets a horse-pill sized dose of good old-fashioned blues.”
    â€œI’ve been prescribing myself a lot of Susan Tedeschi.”
    â€œShe’s good and she’s cute,” he noted as he slid his hand into a bag he kept by his side, “but you need more powerful injections.”
    He set a few CDs down in front of me. His famous mixtapes. “Start with this,” he added, pointing to one entitled
Night Stalker
, Missy Andersen’s old warhorse.
    â€œThanks, Catfish.”
    He went and sat down at his booth onstage. A few minutes later, people were dancing as he put on records and recounted juicy anecdotes about the singers. All while repeating that people who didn’t like the blues could go fuck themselves.
    Two hours later he came back and sat down at the table, but by then I was too out of it to carry on a conversation. The owner knew me and let me sleep on a bench. When I woke up the next morning, I found the bartender restocking the bar. He made me an espresso and gave me a message from Catfish. “He paid the tab, but next time it’s your treat.”
    â€œBig tab?”
    He laughed before answering. “I haven’t seen a drinker like you in quite some time.”
    I hoped that was a compliment, and lit the first cigarette of the day.
    â€œYou can take the alcohol out of the blues, but you can’t take the blues out of the alcohol,” I philosophized, trying to set a slightly more dignified tone as I headed for the door.
    I began the round of therapy Catfish had prescribed by listening to the first CD, and by the time I opened the door to my home I felt oppressed by an unmotivated sadness. That’s the way it works with the blues, you start over from the bottom and then you try to pull yourself back up.
    â€œA woman?” the fat man asked; he was, as usual, engrossed with the day’s papers.
    â€œA bottle,” I replied, heading for the bathroom. I needed a shower.
    I took it slow, and gave up on the idea of shaving after a couple of misguided attempts. I was still pretty drunk.
    When I got back to the living room, I was met with a bear hug from Beniamino. As usual, he was impeccably garbed. He was wearing a light wool, hazel brown, double-breasted suit, and a pair of leather shoes in bordeaux that looked quite expensive. The knot in his tie was perfect.
    â€œSatisfied with your new boat?” I asked.
    He smiled. “To call her a boat doesn’t do her justice, but in any case, yes, I’m satisfied, and she’s already earned me a few thousand euros.”
    â€œHave you gone back to smuggling?”
    â€œIf a good opportunity turns up, I won’t let it pass me by.”
    Max uncorked a bottle of white wine. “I brought Beniamino up-to-date on the story