I Am Pilgrim(169)

At the far end, close to the base of a small bluff and half hidden among a scattering of boulders, I found Gianfranco’s operation. Quite by accident, and moving through the shadow cast by the boulders, I approached it from behind.

Privacy was supposed to be provided by canvas screens with the name of his business on them, but they had been poorly arranged and I had the chance to observe him through a gap.

He was in his mid-twenties, olive-skinned, with two days’ stubble and a shock of wavy hair. Yeah, he was good looking but probably not quite as handsome as he thought: his eyes were set too deep, and he was a little too muscle-bound.

Nevertheless, he must have seemed attractive to middle-aged German women who were on vacation and looking for fun and maybe something a little more physical in the hot Turkish sun. One of them was lying face down on the massage table, the top of her two-piece swimming costume unhooked and a towel covering her butt.

Gianfranco, in a white banana hammock and nothing else, was working one of his twenty oils – prepared from ancient recipes, according to the bullshit on his privacy screens – into the woman’s back, lightly running his fingers over her side-boobs. She made no objection and, having dipped his toe in the water, he leaned further over, slipping his massaging hands down under the towel covering her ass and bringing the white hammock within an inch of her face.

It was impossible to tell if his hands were inside her swimming costume or not, but it didn’t matter – they would be soon. Remember the days when divorced middle-aged women went on vacation and the most adventurous thing they did was drink too much and buy some tacky souvenirs? No wonder the tourist shops in the Old Town were going broke.

As he kneaded her butt under the towel she complimented him on how strong his hands were. I guessed English was the only language they had in common.

‘Yeah, I built ’em up as a kid,’ he said. ‘I worked in a car wash, I was an expert on the full wax and polish.’

‘I bet you were,’ she laughed, her voice growing throaty. ‘Did you do interiors as well?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ he replied, ‘they were my speciality.’ He leaned closer. ‘They still are, I just charge a little extra.’

‘And how about a complete detailing? How much is that?’

He was close enough to whisper in her ear, and she must have thought it was okay. ‘You take credit cards?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ he replied, laughing, his hands clearly inside her swimming costume by then. ‘This is a full-service operation.’

‘And I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, her hand touching his muscular thigh and starting to move up towards the hammock.

It was a bit like watching an imminent train wreck – hard to drag your eyes away – but I feared she was about to let the banana loose, so I stepped between the screens.

‘Gianfranco, is it?’ I asked happily, making out that I hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

The German woman instantly drew her hand away and made sure the towel was covering her butt. Gianfranco, on the other hand, was furious – abusing me for intruding and pointing at the privacy screens and telling me I would be lucky if he didn’t break my ass.

I was content to let it blow through, but it seemed the more he thought about that unused credit card, the more he whipped himself into a frenzy, and he went to push me hard.

I caught his forearm in mid-air, so fast I don’t think he realized what was happening, and pressed my thumb and index finger right into the bone. Krav Maga had taught me that there is a nerve there which, when put under stress, partially paralyses the hand.

Giancarlo felt his fingers go limp – it probably wasn’t the only thing – and realized that his hand wasn’t responding. He looked at me, and I smiled.

‘I’m with the FBI,’ I said cheerily.

The German woman had already got off the table, pulled her top up and was grabbing her few possessions off a chair.

‘What do you want?’ Gianfranco demanded.

I picked up his shorts from a table, tossed them to him and waited while he pulled them on one-handed. ‘I’m investigating a murder at the French House,’ I said.

‘What’s that got to do with me? I only work there in the winter.’

I noted the answer, noted it carefully, but I glided into the next question without any apparent pause. Just keep it normal, I told myself, no pressure.

‘So I understand. A bit of maintenance, let the pool guy in, help the gardeners – is that right?’

‘Yeah.’ He was flexing his fingers, feeling the movement returning.

‘How much do you get paid?’

‘Nothing. Free board, that’s all. I have to make enough on the beach in summer to keep me all year.’ He glanced to where the German Hausfrau had disappeared. ‘Thanks a lot, by the way. She was good for at least a hundred.’