Vita Nuova by Magdalen Nabb

suggested Nesti, putting down his fork and reaching for his cigarettes.
    ‘It’s no smoking here,’ the marshal said, looking about him.
    ‘Right,’ agreed Nesti, lighting up, ‘that’s why there’s an ashtray. You passed up a good chance there, you know, Maddalena.’
    ‘Oh, Tommaso’s all right. But he’s got his job on the paper here. Sports reporting’s his life. And then there’s his family. His mother’s widowed and she’s not so well. He wanted me to stay here, get married. I’ve got my own plans. I intend to make money. A lot of money. Order me a grilled fillet steak, Nesti. It’s the only thing fit to eat in this place.’
    ‘You chose it.’ Nesti snapped his fingers for a waiter without looking up.
    ‘Because I’ve got to meet somebody in the bar next door at eleven, that’s why.’
    ‘Not above turning the occasional trick in the interests of getting rich, then.’
    ‘Not if it’s a decent sort and he pays well, no. It’s an honest transaction. Look around you at the women in here with their lifted faces and Vuitton handbags—all paid for by hubby while they’re screwing his best friend. The difference between them and me is that their transactions are dishonest. Listen, I haven’t a lot of time. Are you going on with this story or not?’
    ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
    ‘And what about him? Who is he exactly?’ Her bright grey eyes transfixed the marshal.
    ‘I. . . .’
    ‘He’s all right. He’s a friend of mine. Has some influence in the carabinieri, and it’s going to be up to them in the end. I just want the front page. I’m not up for any dramatic rescue stuff.’
    ‘Well, be careful. Do things her way, or there’ll be no way anybody can rescue her.’
    ‘Don’t worry about that. What’s her name?’
    ‘Cristina, but don’t ask for her by name. She’ll be on the centre pole, and she’ll be wearing a silver tanga and a transparent blue top that she’ll take off while she’s dancing. Her hair’s pretty much like mine and she’s got a mole, really dark, just under her left breast. When she comes offstage to work the room, she’ll find you.’
    ‘How many girls like her are there?’
    ‘Five. But it’s the other two, the ones you won’t see, that really matter.’
    The local marshal had certainly been right about one thing. The Emperor was upmarket, all right. Attended carpark, big, well-kept gardens all around, gravel paths discreetly lighted.
    ‘This must cost a pretty penny in upkeep,’ said the marshal. They could hear music in the distance.
    ‘Bit more than the good old-fashioned brothels in the city, eh?’
    ‘It was a mistake to ever close them.’
    ‘Before you were old enough to get to try them, you mean? Or is that the cop in you talking? More control, medical checks, that stuff?’
    ‘No, no . . . I just hate seeing those young girls out on the street at all hours, getting frozen and soaking wet, the poor little things. It’s not right. They should be inside where it’s warm.’
    ‘Well, they’re inside where it’s warm here, all right.’
    It might have been the foyer of a cinema with the box office to the left, a velvet curtain straight ahead, a staircase to the right.
    ‘Two,’ Nesti said.
    ‘First-time customers?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Thirty euros.’
    ‘Visa all right?’
    The marshal followed Nesti beyond the curtain towards the noise of disco music. They weren’t going to be able to hear themselves think, let alone talk to this Cristina, whoever she was, in the marshal’s opinion, but there was nothing for it but to go on with this line of inquiry, even if it turned out to be more use to Nesti’s career than his own case.
    The half-dark room lined with mirrors was about twenty-five to thirty metres long, with a bar at the far end and a stage halfway along on the left where three pole dancers were gyrating under spinning coloured lights. Small groups of leather sofas and armchairs were set around low tables. Nesti chose one they