with Arthur, or Max as you knew him then?â
âI have no idea. I guess I just wondered if heâd found him, too, made him the offer and heâd accepted, if thatâs why he went â gone on to bigger and better things.â She looked to her left, to the street beyond: Trastevere was growing busy as lunchtime approached. A striking woman passed them: blonde, tall, Scandinavian maybe. Maria followed her for a while and then returned her gaze to Scamarcio, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. For a moment, he sensed insecurity there.
As if in response, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and revealed the imperfections in her skin: there were small lines around the mouth, and the beginnings of worry lines above the nose.
âMax was good looking. He stood out, so I wondered if heâd also caught his eye. When someone makes you an offer like that, you donât tell the others; you keep it for yourself. When you came round the other day, I got to wondering â wondering whether thatâs what happened, whether heâd left to work for him. But Max wasnât a trans, so maybe there was no offer. Maybe Iâve got it wrong.â
Scamarcio watched the answers hover in front of him and then evaporate into nothing, dissolve into the May haze.
âAnd this guy told you no more about the work, about what would be required?â
âNo, that was it â just that it was good money, a nice location, top-drawer clients.â
âCan you remember anything from the card? A name, an address even?â
She looked down, rubbed at a nail, chipping away at the varnish where it needed retouching. âIâm sorry, it was a long time ago. There are so many names and faces, I canât remember them all.â
âWhy were you so uptight before?â
She glanced up, and he saw himself reflected in the lenses of her glasses, leaning in, trying to make contact.
âDonât you hear the stories? Some of these rackets: once they get a hold of you, thatâs it. Maybe Max wanted out, and thatâs why they killed him. And here I am talking to you, and heâs talked to me, and who knows ⦠who knows where it could all end?â
11
SCAMARCIO DIDNâT KNOW what to make of his conversation with Maria. It could be nothing, or it could be everything. He thought of the unknown man who had given her his card, and the unknown man who had handed the photos to the officers. Who were they? Were they one and the same? He walked up Via Marmaggi and crossed into Via Fratte. He wasnât really sure where he was heading â he just enjoyed the coolness of the shadows, the damp smell of moss on stone. He realised that he was just two streets away from Arthurâs building now, and he suddenly felt the need to walk past, to see the place again, although he didnât quite know why, didnât know what it would bring. He felt his pulse quicken, and noticed that his heart was beating so loudly that he could hear it: it was almost a pounding vibration in his ears. Finally recognising the throb of his mobile above the rhythm, he scrambled for it in his back pocket, almost dropping it into the road. He felt a stab of panic as Filippiâs number flashed up. Was he spying on him? Had he seen him make the turn into Arthurâs street?
Best to keep it casual. âOscar, listen. Iâm sorry about before.â
âDonât sweat it. Thing is, this case is starting to get weird on me, and I need your help.â
âWhat are you talking about?â
âWhere are you now?â Obstinate to the last.
He thought it best to avoid the truth, so decided to put himself a few streets back. âIâve just met a friend for lunch in Via delle Luce â your neck of the woods. Why?â
âGood, get down here to the station. I want to show you something.â
The Trastevere station was cool and half empty, but it still carried the usual male undertones of
âI have no idea. I guess I just wondered if heâd found him, too, made him the offer and heâd accepted, if thatâs why he went â gone on to bigger and better things.â She looked to her left, to the street beyond: Trastevere was growing busy as lunchtime approached. A striking woman passed them: blonde, tall, Scandinavian maybe. Maria followed her for a while and then returned her gaze to Scamarcio, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. For a moment, he sensed insecurity there.
As if in response, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and revealed the imperfections in her skin: there were small lines around the mouth, and the beginnings of worry lines above the nose.
âMax was good looking. He stood out, so I wondered if heâd also caught his eye. When someone makes you an offer like that, you donât tell the others; you keep it for yourself. When you came round the other day, I got to wondering â wondering whether thatâs what happened, whether heâd left to work for him. But Max wasnât a trans, so maybe there was no offer. Maybe Iâve got it wrong.â
Scamarcio watched the answers hover in front of him and then evaporate into nothing, dissolve into the May haze.
âAnd this guy told you no more about the work, about what would be required?â
âNo, that was it â just that it was good money, a nice location, top-drawer clients.â
âCan you remember anything from the card? A name, an address even?â
She looked down, rubbed at a nail, chipping away at the varnish where it needed retouching. âIâm sorry, it was a long time ago. There are so many names and faces, I canât remember them all.â
âWhy were you so uptight before?â
She glanced up, and he saw himself reflected in the lenses of her glasses, leaning in, trying to make contact.
âDonât you hear the stories? Some of these rackets: once they get a hold of you, thatâs it. Maybe Max wanted out, and thatâs why they killed him. And here I am talking to you, and heâs talked to me, and who knows ⦠who knows where it could all end?â
11
SCAMARCIO DIDNâT KNOW what to make of his conversation with Maria. It could be nothing, or it could be everything. He thought of the unknown man who had given her his card, and the unknown man who had handed the photos to the officers. Who were they? Were they one and the same? He walked up Via Marmaggi and crossed into Via Fratte. He wasnât really sure where he was heading â he just enjoyed the coolness of the shadows, the damp smell of moss on stone. He realised that he was just two streets away from Arthurâs building now, and he suddenly felt the need to walk past, to see the place again, although he didnât quite know why, didnât know what it would bring. He felt his pulse quicken, and noticed that his heart was beating so loudly that he could hear it: it was almost a pounding vibration in his ears. Finally recognising the throb of his mobile above the rhythm, he scrambled for it in his back pocket, almost dropping it into the road. He felt a stab of panic as Filippiâs number flashed up. Was he spying on him? Had he seen him make the turn into Arthurâs street?
Best to keep it casual. âOscar, listen. Iâm sorry about before.â
âDonât sweat it. Thing is, this case is starting to get weird on me, and I need your help.â
âWhat are you talking about?â
âWhere are you now?â Obstinate to the last.
He thought it best to avoid the truth, so decided to put himself a few streets back. âIâve just met a friend for lunch in Via delle Luce â your neck of the woods. Why?â
âGood, get down here to the station. I want to show you something.â
The Trastevere station was cool and half empty, but it still carried the usual male undertones of
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