Michael Dibdin - Ratking

‘I have to go,’ Zen said as soon as Gilberto came back. ‘Mamma will get anxious.’

It had stopped raining. He started to walk home through the almost deserted streets. The chartered plane to Austria would no doubt have been followed by an international flight to South Africa, from which she could not be extradited. Ivy’s plans would have been laid for days, carefully worked out in the course of her meetings with Silvio. Her passport had been impounded, so he must have obtained false papers for her as well as putting up bail and arranging the flight. Money would have been no problem. All sorts of people would have been happy to contribute financially to ensure that the contents of the famous safety-deposit box vanished with Ivy.

So she was in the clear. For Silvio the consequences were likely to be more serious, at least in the short run. The fickle public mood was about to turn very ugly indeed. Important people had been made to look foolish. The Miletti name would no longer be enough to protect Silvio. Her hands freed, Rosella Foria would have him arrested and charged with conspiring to pervert the course of justice. The case would drag on and on, getting bogged down in tedious details until everyone had lost interest, and then in a year or so, when the whole thing had been forgotten, Silvio would be quietly released for lack of evidence.

Suddenly Zen felt something give way inside his chest. It’s my heart, he thought, I’m dying. Unable to go on walking, or even stand upright, he bent over a parked car, fighting for breath. Only very gradually did he realize what was happening. He was weeping. It was the first time for years, a brutal and convulsive release, as painful as retching on an empty stomach.

‘Waiting for a bum-fuck, grandpa?’

Hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him round.

‘Rim-job you’re after, is it? Up from the provinces for a bit of fun, or are you local? I can fix you up, no problem. Not personally, you understand, but for the right money up front I can lay on a kid who went down on Pasolini. Meanwhile, let’s check your financial standing. Wallet, fuckface! Wallet!’

A torch flashed in his face. Then he heard a gentle chuckle.

‘Well, well, dottore, what a coincidence! Don’t you remember me? That time on the train a few weeks back, with the old fart who tried to act tough.’

He looked more closely at Zen.

‘But what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What have the bastards done to you?’

‘I’m all right.’

Unconvinced, the youth tugged his arm.

‘Come and have something warm to drink, dottore. There’s a place open just round the corner.’

‘No, I’m all right, really.’

But his whole body was trembling uncontrollably, and he allowed himself to be led away.

‘You shouldn’t hang around here at this time of night, you know,’ his companion remarked casually. ‘This is a very tough neighbourhood.’

The only other customer in the all-night bar was an old prostitute sitting in the corner, talking to herself and obsessively shaking out her hair with both hands. The youth greeted the barman familiarly and ordered two cappuccinos. He produced a packet of Nazionali from his jacket.

‘Smoke, dottore?’

‘Thanks.’

‘Fucking bastards. Don’t ever let them get you down, though. You let them do that, it’s the end.’

As their coffees arrived there was a screech of tyres outside. The door slammed open and two patrolmen walked in.

‘Evening, Alfredo.’

‘Evening lads. What can I get you?’

‘For me a cappucio, really hot, lots of froth on it.’

‘And a hot chocolate.’

‘Right away. Cold out there?’

‘It’s not warm. See the game last night?’

‘That Tardelli.’

‘Beautiful.’

The patrolmen stood looking round the bar, rubbing their hands together and stroking their moustaches, staring with insolent directness at the other customers. The muffled squawks of their car’s short-wave radio could be heard outside.

The youth looked down the room to the door at the end, beyond the video machine and the pinball table. Then he glanced at the barman, who shook his head almost imperceptibly.

‘Had any trouble lately, Alfredo?’ asked one of the patrolmen.

‘No, no. We never have any trouble here,’ the barman assured him, a shade too hastily.

‘Glad to hear it.’

Time passed, marked by the slow coiling of smoke from their cigarettes.

‘Was that us?’ one of the patrolmen finally remarked.

His colleague ambled to the door and held it open, listening to the radio. He turned and nodded.

‘Domestic altercation, Via Tasso.’

‘Someone giving the wife a bit of stick,’ the patrolman guffawed to Alfredo. ‘What do we owe you?’

‘You joking?’

‘Thanks. See you, then. Don’t work too hard.’

‘No fear.’

The patrolmen went out, leaving the door wide open. A moment later their car roared away.

The barman started towards the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ the youth told him, gulping down the rest of his coffee.

He gave Zen a little nod.

‘Take care now, dottore.’

He sauntered to the door and disappeared.

‘How much do I owe you?’ Zen muttered to the barman.

‘It’s already taken care of.’

‘How much?’

The barman looked at him more carefully.

‘Cappuccino’s eight hundred lire.’

As he took out his wallet, Zen came across the internal memorandum he had received that morning and put away unopened. It was bound to be bad news, probably disciplinary action of some kind resulting from his irregular handling of the Miletti case. But now he had nothing left to lose. Let’s know the worst and have done with it, he thought, as he tore the envelope open. To: Chief Commissioner Zen Aurelio From: Enrico Mancini, Assistant Under-Secretary. You are hereby informed of your promotion to the rank of Vice-Questore with effect from the 1st of May and consequent on this your transfer from inspection duties to the active rosta of the Polizia Criminale.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened. His deal with Gianluigi Santucci had only been intended to disguise his real purpose, which was to arrest Ruggiero’s murderer. But the Tuscan’s double-dealing had evidently gone undetected, and here was Zen’s reward.

I’m back in the pack, he thought. A functioning member of the ratking once again.

Outside the sky was clear and littered with stars. Zen began to walk home through a silence broken only by the thin, insistent ringing of a distant telephone.