Carlo sat back out of the light and put his feet up on my desk, telling me something I didn’t need to be told.
‘I’d offer you a beer…’ I said.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Gio?’
Gio didn’t move an eyelid.
‘He’ll have a Coke. He don’t drink.’
I slammed my can of beer down and slid it across to Carlo. I shouted for the gardien and gave him some money for another beer and a Coke. I took the third chair in the room and drew it up to the desk. Carlo nestled the beer in his lap and pinged the ring-pull, not breaking the seal. I continued with the lamb kebab and gave Gio a quick once-over. Brutal. Trog-brutal.
‘You eat that shit off the street?’ asked Carlo.
‘Keeps up my stomach flora, Carlo,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to think I actually like it.’
Carlo said something in Italian. Gio wrinkled his nose. Animated, heady stuff.
‘You don’t mind if I smoke?’ asked Carlo. ‘While you do your stomach flora thing.’
‘I’m touched you asked.’
He lit up. The gardien came back with the drinks. Gio and I opened our cans.
‘Chin-chin,’ I said.
Carlo kept on pinging.
‘This a social?’ I asked, wiping my fingers off on the newspaper.
‘Mr Franconelli’s got a job for you.’
‘I didn’t think Mr Franconelli liked me any more.’
‘He don’t.’
‘Does that mean he won’t be paying?’
‘He’ll pay. You’re small change.’
‘What’s the job?’
‘Find someone,’ said Carlo, stretching himself to a shivering yawn.
‘You can tell me it all at once, you know, Carlo. I can take in more than one thing at a time – beer, kebab, your friend here, who you want me to find – all in one big rush.’
‘The guy’s name is Jean-Luc Marnier.’
‘Would that be a full-blooded Frenchman, a métis, or an African?’
Carlo flipped a photo across to me. Jean-Luc Marnier was white, in his fifties, with thick, swept-back grey hair that was longish at the collar and tonic-ed. It had gone yellow over one eye, stained by smoke from an unfiltered cigarette he had in his mouth. Attractive was just about an applicable adjective. He might have been movie-hunk material when he was younger and smoother, but some hardness in his life had cragged him up. He had prominent facial bones – cheeks, jaw, forehead all rugged with wear – a full-lipped mouth, surprisingly long ears with fleshy lobes and a blade-sharp nose – a seductive mixture of soft and hard. His dark eyes were shrewd and looked as if they could find weaknesses even when there weren’t any. I thought he probably had bad teeth, but he looked like a ladies’ man, which meant he’d have had them fixed. The man had some presence, even in a photo, but it was a rogue presence.
‘Is he a big guy?’ I asked.
‘A metre seventy-five. Eighty-five kilos. Not fat, just a little heavy.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘Import/export.’
‘For a change,’ I said. ‘He have an office?’
‘And a home,’ said Carlo, sliding over a piece of paper.
‘Why can’t you find him yourself?’
Carlo pinged the ring-pull some more, getting on my nerves.
‘We’ve looked. He’s not around. Nobody talks to us.’
‘Does that mean he’s been a bad boy?’
‘Take a look at the guy,’ said Carlo.
‘What do I do when I find him?’
Gio looked at Carlo out of the corner of his hand as if he might be interested in something for the first time.
‘You just tell us where he is.’
‘Then what?’
‘Finish,’ he said, and crushed his cigarette out in the tuna can supplied.
‘You going to kill him? Is that it?’
Carlo and Gio stilled to a religious quiet.
‘Forget it, Carlo,’ I said. ‘That is not my kind of work.’
Carlo’s feet crashed to the floor. He slammed the beer can down on the desk top and leaned over at me so that our faces were close enough for beer and tobacco fumes to be exchanged.
‘I thought you were the one who liked me, Carlo.’
‘I do, Bruce. I like you fine. But not when you’re dumb.’
‘Then I don’t know how you ever got to like me.’
Carlo grunted about one sixteenth of a laugh. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a little massage, brutally thumbing the muscle over the bone.
‘I know a lot of smart people who tell me they’re dumb.’
‘It’s a trick we learn,’ I said.
‘Now, Gio, you might be surprised to learn, is a very remarkable teacher ‘cos he can make dumb people think smart and smart people think dumb. Not bad for a guy who’s never been to school, still has trouble readin’ a book with no pictures.’
I took another look at Gio, at the slab-of-concrete forehead, the short neck with black hair sprouting up it from his deep chest, forearms like animals’ thighs, rower’s wrists and agricultural hands, the odd knuckle missing from thumping the mule straight whilst ploughing.
‘He’s got intelligent hands,’ I said. ‘I can see that.’
‘Careful, Bruce. His English is not so good but he has a good ear for tone and if he thinks you don’t take him seriously he has a number of very short lessons he can give.’
‘Look, Carlo, I’m not being difficult. You’ve just asked me to find a guy and in not so many words you’ve told me that when I find him you’re going to…’
Carlo tapped me on the forehead with an envelope. I shut up. He laid the envelope on the desk.
‘There’s some money in there and I put a little item in with it that I think you’ll find very interesting. I don’t think it’s something you’ll want to talk to Mr Franconelli about, but it should help you make your mind up. Now, you’ve got forty-eight hours to find Marnier. We’ll be staying in the Hotel de la Plage – walking distance, but don’t come and see us. Leave a message at the desk for us to call by or meet up someplace. OK?’
Carlo let go of my shoulder and stood up. He opened up his can, sprayed me down with the spurting beer and emptied the foam over my head.
‘Thanks for the beer.’
‘Don’t mention it, Carlo,’ I said.
They left the office.
Fifteen minutes to trash my life, that was all it took. I turned the envelope over. It was stuck down. I felt the thickness of the money and couldn’t find the strength to open it just yet.
Now Bagado and I both had our millstones and Bagado was going to have to tread water with his while I got out from under my own.