The other man said something in French. Toni smiled, and Zollo waited for him to translate.
‘Jo asks if you’ve seen the Jean Gabin film, Touchez-pas au Grisbi.’
‘I only know American films.’
‘Shame. This is the capital of the cinema. Even Hitchcock is making a film in Cannes.’
Zollo didn’t move a muscle, he wasn’t there to chat.
Toni understood and reached his conclusion. ‘The meeting is scheduled for eleven in the morning, when there are more people around.’
The fair-haired man spoke again.
‘Jo’s asking if you’ve got a swimming costume. You might stand out if you were wearing evening dress.’
Zollo glanced blankly at the fair-haired man.
Then he said, ‘Tell him I haven’t got a costume. I’ll come dressed as the Emperor of Japan.’
Toni translated and Jo laughed heartily.
‘You’ve got the sample, I imagine,’ said Toni.
‘The first three kilos.’
‘It isn’t that I don’t trust you, mon ami, but I’m the go-between in this deal, and I’d like to check the quality of the goods. Can you see that?’
The waiter interrupted their conversation by placing the glasses on the table.
Zollo picked up Toni’s glass, slipped something underneath it and pushed it in front of him.
Toni picked up the envelope, tested it with his finger, and passed it to his associate, who did the same thing.
‘Ça va. If they’re happy, they’ll pay for the three kilos. They’ll settle up for the rest.’
‘I need some sort of assurance as well.’
Toni understood. ‘Pas d’problèmes, Zollò. You can come unarmed. We’re all businessmen, and Cannes is trop belle for bad blood.’
‘How many will there be?’
‘Just one. Monsieur Alain.’
‘How will I recognise him?’
‘He’s a fat guy in a white suit. We’ll be sitting at a table nearby.’
‘So how are we going to do this?’
‘Tell me if you’re happy: the two of you talk on your own, when you’ve finished you get up and walk back to the coast road, you take a right and after a hundred metres you go into the restaurant La Provençale. I recommend the duck, it’s the house speciality. I’ll join you there, and you tell me how it went.’
Zollo nodded. He downed his whiskey in one and got to his feet.
‘Who’s the boy?’ asked Toni.
‘Which one?’
‘The one you came in with.’
‘Oh, that’s nobody.’
Toni looked at him and nodded.
Zollo waved them both goodbye and went back into the hall.
‘Justine, my vision of loveliness! I had no idea that the many gifts that nature has so graciously blessed you with included such acute perspicacity! If only I could recognise a parvenu in a crowd with such unfailing success! And Italian at that, and with a considerable consignment of fiches, too! I bow to anyone who can uncover hidden talents. Introduce me right now this instant!’
Jean Azzoni had wasted no time. In a few minutes, despite his initial reluctance, he had first borne down upon, then overwhelmed, then taken in and bent to his purposes a Salvatore Pagano still confused, shaken, stirred by his great win and by the celestial exhalations of the siren with the golden skin. On the other side of the green table, Lucien Mariani had winked, as he began to envelop Bao Dai in a fog of bullshit.
Azzoni had had it easy, not least because of his origins and his perfect knowledge of Italian, but there could be no doubt that his ability to identify the leading players for his explosive theatrical pièces touched on the sublime.
The boy could make this A Night to Remember. As long as the masters of ceremonies, Azzoni & Mariani, acted as they were expected to.
It would not be a problem. That was why they were there. And to earn the precious Soviet caviar to spread on their croutons.
He immediately introduced the boy to the rules of chemin de fer: you play one against one, you are given two cards, you can ask for a third, the aim of the game is to make eight or nine, the highest points, or at least better than your adversary; when you win you don’t just get your stake, you get the bank as well, you need cool nerves, luck, memory and instinct.
‘It’s like “seven and a half”, I know how to play this one!’ Kociss observed, full of bravado.
Jean Azzoni had no objections to the one mandatory clause that Salvatore imposed on their new fellowship: that Justine, that goddess, should stick with him like a cup and a saucer, otherwise that was that, he wouldn’t even think about it.
‘When Justine identifies her prey, she certainly doesn’t let go of it,’ whispered Jean ‘the Wink’ Azzoni.
He swapped his roulette winnings for the equivalent of the much costlier fiches of the chemin de fer table, considerably reducing their volume. The right moment came to enter the game. A slack period at the table, a less coveted bank. Bao Dai swathed in Marianiesque anecdotes, sudden quotations, feints to the lower abdomen and scraps of melody sung in in fake English.
The boy didn’t disappoint. Eight first go. Victory, and the bank paid out.
The boy emanated confidence.
Azzoni was the shadow behind him, dispensing advice. Justine, the fairy who turned the frog into a prince. Mariani, the python paralysing his prey.
By the fourth win in a row, the kitty was starting to get interesting. For Azzoni, that was the point when the show really began.
Lucien Mariani concluded a rambling speech about the hidden meaning of Italian gestures designed to ward off evil, with particular reference to touching one’s balls. He allowed Bao Dai to enjoy the final game in complete tranquillity. The boy was winning hands down. He crossed his fingers. He had Justine lay hands upon him. He flourished his horns. He protected his scrotum from the darts of the evil eye.
An imperial hand tapped delicately on the green table: Bao Dai was rising to the challenge.
The much discussed, whorish, hated, bankrolled, hoodwinked Asian nabob against the little Italian boy with the bewildering luck.
All eyes quickly converged on the table and the game. Bow down before the talent and wise direction of Jean Azzoni and Lucien Mariani.
‘But you know the Chinaman, don’t you?’
Four winning rounds later, two eights and two nines, everyone had worked out that the imperial hand belonged to the boy.
By the ninth win, there was enough money on the Municipal’s table to solve the problems not only of Kociss, but of the whole district of Sanità.
Bao Dai, obviously, didn’t bat an eyelid. He called, ‘Banco’.
Mariani was delighted. Azzoni smiled. Justine stroked the back of Kociss’s neck; he was in a trance.
All around, a real crowd of people was desperate not to miss the most exciting clash of the past few months.
The croupier took two cards from the sabot. He handed them to the emperor.
Bao Dai studied them, a slight flicker of his right eyelid, and after a few seconds he spread the two cards face down on the table. Card.
The croupier gave him a nine of spades. It was Pagano’s turn. He studied and revealed the two cards. A king of diamonds and a three of hearts. Azzoni murmured behind him. ‘Difficult hand. We’re going to have to call for a card.’
‘We haven’t needed one before now,’ came the reply, and before Jean Azzoni could do anything, Kociss’s voice was heard to utter a single, mad word of only four letters: ‘Pass.’
The silence all around turned into a murmur of surprise and disapproval. Bao Dai’s eyelid trembled again, as he turned over the two cards that were still covered. Queen of clubs and two of spades. With the nine already gone, the emperor had one point.