“Did you see about the mob hit last night?” I ask. “It’s all over the TV.”
We’re walking down Corso Magenta, a residential street flanked by continuous two- and three-story buildings, on our way to Santa Maria Delle Grazie. The morning rush hour zooms past and orange trams rumble by every few minutes. After our traffic torture yesterday, we’re taking mass transit or hoofing it unless we need to make an entrance. Carson—who apparently stayed at the bar way after I left—needed the largest cup of strong, black coffee she could get from the McDonalds on the Piazza del Duomo before she became verbal.
“You woke me up,” Carson grumbles. “Barely had time to piss.” She looks as bedraggled as she sounds.
“It was just a few blocks from the hotel. You didn’t hear it? It woke me up. From what I can tell, some mafia dude took out some other mafia dude’s car with an RPG. Three dead in the car.”
“Huh. No humans involved.”
“That’s harsh. But seriously, an RPG? Isn’t that what assault rifles are for?”
“It’s a statement.” She thumb-dances on her phone for a couple minutes. “News says ‘Ndrangheta versus Russians. The Calabrians make their fights public. They like car bombs and RPGs. Go big or go home, eh?”
Those are Belknap’s new friends? Jesus.
We’re almost right on top of Santa Maria before we see it: a Renaissance-style brick, stone and stucco structure with a cupola and semi-cylindrical apsidal chapels. We pass by the Gothic nave and end up on the flagstone piazza outside the church. “Here we are.”
“Where?” She squints at the banner over the door into the butter-yellow stucco building next to the church. “What’s a ‘Cenacolo Vinciano’?” She butchers the Italian.
We enter the yellow building—the convent’s former refectory—and turn in our tickets for the 8:15 viewing (the hotel’s concierge got a nice tip for scoring these). Carson plods outside to sit in the sun. I make the rounds of the historical panels, then after fifteen minutes collect Carson for our entry. We go through a waiting room with our twenty-three travel companions, then through what’s essentially an airlock. “Look to your right,” I whisper to her as we pass into a dim, overcooled hall.
Carson’s jaw drops. So does mine. Da Vinci’s The Last Supper does that to you.
The rest of the morning’s a forced march through Milan’s Gallery of Modern Art—which should be called the Gallery of Modern Italian Art—while I give Carson the inch-deep rundown of major European art movements ranging from the end of the Eighteenth Century into the early Twentieth. As the personal assistant to a collector, she needs to know at least some of the names and terms so she doesn’t sound like an idiot when somebody in the business speaks to her. She takes it seriously and doesn’t bitch too much. We don’t talk about yesterday or last night, but it’s there in the background, chewing on us both.
Carson’s a quick study, at least in learning the vocabulary. She still doesn’t have a feel for the art itself. A couple times I lead her into the middle of a gallery and say, “Which one would you take home?” and she either seizes up or answers “None of them.” That’s okay; she hasn’t found what speaks to her yet.
Around 11:45, I have Carson call Belknap’s gallery. If he answers, she’ll do the “wrong number” thing; if the assistant answers, Carson will tell her we’re inbound. I want to make sure we catch the assistant before lunch—I want her hungry physically as well as metaphorically. Yeah, cruel maybe, but it works.
Carson mutes her phone. “She’s there, he isn’t.”
“Find out about the door camera.”
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Carson tells the phone in corporate smooth. “I’m sorry, I need to ask… I noticed a camera covering your front door? Mr. Hoskins is very sensitive about having his picture taken… Yes, that’s right… Okay, thanks so much.” She kills the call. “Camera’s off when they’re open.” Just like what we did at Heibrück. Some clients don’t want to be video stars. “I’m texting the limo service.”
“Good.” This is why we wore our almost-business outfits this morning, so we don’t have to waste time changing. “Let’s see if Miss Gianna knows everything a good assistant should.”