Chapter Thirty-nine

THE HOTEL DUCASSE was one of the places I mentioned earlier – SO fashionable, people were drilling holes in the wall to get inside. It was on the waterfront, with a private beach, cabanas you could rent for the summer for a small fortune and a dozen flat-bottomed boats that ferried waiters, food and drinks out to moored cruisers. That was the low end of the establishment.

The exclusive section, up on the roof, was called the Skybar. I had come straight from the music store, and I passed through the hotel’s art deco front doors, crossed several acres of Cuban mahogany flooring and skirted extravagant settings of Philippe Starck furniture before I found the Skybar’s dedicated elevator. As I approached, I saw the guy operating it – dressed in designer black pyjamas – note my cheap FBI-style clothes and ready himself to say it was reservation only. But I have a pretty good death stare when I need it, so I set it to Defcon 1 and saw him decide that keeping me out wasn’t worth dying for.

He zoomed me to the top and I stepped into a zoo. The Skybar’s centrepiece was a pure white, vanishing-edge pool with a glass bottom and a huge view across the bay to the Crusader castle and – fittingly enough – the French House.

Facing the pool were a handful of ultra-luxurious cabanas which seemed to be occupied by several of Eastern Europe’s leading kleptocrats and their families. Slightly elevated, they commanded the best view of the pool and its huge expanse of flesh and silicon: scantily clad women of all ages with bee-stung lips and bolt-on boobs, and young, hard-bodied guys in swimsuits so brief they were generally called banana hammocks.

At the opposite end to the cabanas was the bar and a small stage for a five-piece band. One of the guitarists was my objective, but getting there wasn’t without its obstacles. The first of them was approaching me with a sympathetic smile and his hands spread wide in silent apology. It was the maî tre d’ and, unlike his clientele, he was class all the way: French was my guess, Berluti handmade shoes, lightweight Brioni suit, gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

‘I’m sorry, sir, ’ he said. ‘Today, we are fully booked. ’

I looked at the two dozen empty tables – it was early – and even more vacant stools at the bar. I smiled back just as pleasantly. ‘Yes, I can see that. ’

He already had his arm around my shoulder, guiding me back towards the elevator where the ninja was waiting to whisk me back down to the street where I belonged. I reached into my jacket pocket, and the maî tre d’ assumed I was going for my wallet and a handful of bills to bribe him.

‘Please, sir – don’t embarrass us both, ’ he said, with genuine pain.

‘I wasn’t going to, ’ I replied, pulling out my gold shield.

He looked at it for a moment and put aside the shepherding shit while he considered what to do.

‘Are you arresting someone, Mr Wilson? ’ he asked.

‘Probably. ’

He leaned closer – you could tell he was a terrible gossip – and dropped his voice. ‘Can you tell me who? ’

I leaned in equally close and dropped my voice to match his. ‘Sorry, not allowed. ’

‘No – of course not. But you could probably say what the charge would be. ’

‘Sure, ’ I said, and indicated the pool area. ‘Bad taste. ’

He burst out laughing and shook my hand. ‘Fuck, the place will be empty. You’ll need a bus. ’

He dismissed the ninja with a glance, raised his hand in a gesture to the distant barman and guided me back towards the acres of flesh. ‘Be my guest, Mr Wilson – Anton at the bar will take care of your drinks. ’

I thanked him, walked beside the pool and settled myself on a stool at the bar. I asked Anton for a coffee and turned my attention to the band. It was the bass player I was interested in – his name was Ahmut Pamuk, and he was in his fifties, neatly dressed, a guy who had obviously decided years ago just to play the groove and not look at the crowd. At the Skybar, that was probably wise. He was good, he knew his shit; the sort of man who had already given music the best years of his life and would probably be playing just one more gig until they laid him in the ground.

But the owner of the music store had warned me that he was one of the most unpleasant people you could meet and, watching him on stage, seeing him at his lifetime’s work, I had some understanding why. For a real musician, a man who had been full of hopes and dreams, playing endless versions of ‘Mamma Mia’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’ would be enough to embitter anyone.

As Anton brought my coffee, Pamuk was in the middle of a set – the hits from Titanic – and I waited for him to finish. The owner had told me the guy had been collecting traditional and folk music for years. His father – a musician himself – had started it, worried that if it weren’t collected and written down it would be lost for ever and, in later years, his son had picked up the baton. Apparently, Pamuk got by however he could – playing at the Skybar, pumping gas – all the time finding lost music, playing some of the instruments himself, noting it down like a lost language and sending it to the Turkish National Archives. According to the guy at the music store, if any local could identify the ç igirtma tune, it would be him.

The set finished, the band left the stage to no applause, and I stood up. I gave Pamuk my name and told him that I had a piece of music I was hoping he could help me with. My idea had been to ask him to listen to the MP3 player, but I never got the chance: the store owner hadn’t been mistaken about Pamuk’s personality.

‘It’s the brunch crowd, and I’ve been on stage for an hour already – you heard the deafening applause, right? ’ he said. ‘I’m gonna eat, I’m gonna have a coffee and then I’m gonna rest. ’ He turned to walk away.

‘Mr Pamuk, ’ I replied, ‘I’m not a musicologist or some foreign academic. ’ I flashed him the shield. He wasn’t sure how to react but decided it might be wiser to at least pay lip service to cooperation.

‘Okay, I’ll give you a phone number. Call me tomorrow, we’ll set a time, ’ he said.

‘Tomorrow’s not good enough. It’ll have to be today, ’ I countered. He glared at me, but he had never met the Defcon 1 before and buckled.

‘From four o’clock I work at 176—’ and he rattled off the name of a street that I had no hope of pronouncing, let alone finding, as I was sure he knew. Asshole.

‘Write it down, please, ’ I told him, and motioned to Anton that I needed a pen. Grudgingly, Pamuk complied and, as I walked away, I slipped the address into my pocket.

I almost didn’t bother: in light of his personality, I was certain the meeting was going to be a waste of time.