Back to Bologna

37

‘Remember what I said about us being left free to concentrate on public order issues?’ Zen murmured to Bruno sarcastically.

He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder.

‘Here’s your chance to make the big arrest that brings promotion.’

The patrolman rolled his eyes.

‘It’s just one of those little punkabestia creeps who hang out under the portico of the Teatro Communale and in Piazza Verdi. We don’t bother much with them. The drug dealers take care of the really violent ones. They don’t want any trouble on their turf.’

‘Neither, apparently, does lo chef,’ Zen remarked as the troublemaker passed their table on his way to the front door, escorted by the foreign cook who was screaming ‘Out! Out!’ and prodding the younger man in the back with what was presumably some kitchen implement.

‘Holy Christ!’ said Bruno. ‘That’s Vincenzo Amadori.’

‘What a charmer.’

‘What do we do?’

Zen shrugged.

‘No longer our case, is it?’

‘Don’t forget your stuff, Vincenzo!’

The cry came from the boyfriend of the young woman whom Zen had noticed earlier. He had grabbed the blue nylon duffle bag he had brought and was now squeezing through the tables towards the door.

‘There could be evidence in that bag,’ said Bruno urgently. ‘We should take him!’

Zen lit a cigarette. Time to buy a new pack, he thought. The tobacconists would be closed by now, which just left the machines.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a lot of paperwork, you can say goodbye to the rest of your evening, and in the end the Carabinieri will get all the…’

But Bruno was already on his feet and gone. Ah, youth!