Back to Bologna

38

Out in the street, the situation had already changed. The shortorder cook stumbled on the edge of the doorstep and the yob he was ejecting took advantage of this momentary loss of balance to turn on him. He emerged from the ensuing scuffle holding an automatic pistol. Aurelio Zen stubbed out his cigarette and called in on his work mobile to explain the situation and order the immediate dispatch of a squad car. Rising from the table, he collided with the young woman he had been eyeing earlier, who was now rushing towards the door with the skinnier of the two waiters in hot pursuit.

‘And the bill?’ he called plaintively. ‘Over a hundred with the champagne!’

Zen followed the woman out to the street, where her companion had been grabbed and hoisted under the armpits by the punkabestia person, who was holding the pistol to the side of his head.

‘Back off or the puppy gets it!’ he yelled.

‘Police!’ Bruno retorted, keeping his distance and evidently uncertain what to do next. ‘Lay down the gun! You’re under arrest!’

The gunman didn’t even glance at him, his attention entirely absorbed by the imposing spectacle of the young woman closing in on him.

‘Put my boyfriend down this instant or you’ll have me to deal with!’ she shouted.

Apatrol car swept around the corner, light bar pulsing but siren stilled, and screeched to a halt a few metres away. Vincenzo Amadori surveyed the situation, then lowered his weapon, released Rodolfo and burst into laughter.

‘Ah, fuck!’ he said.

Flavia took the pistol from his fingers and handed it to Bruno. Nobody else approached Vincenzo, who stood swaying about, alternately screwing up and widening his eyes like someone learning a potentially enthralling new skill.

‘Are you a friend of his?’ Zen asked Rodolfo.

‘Who are you?’

‘A police officer.’

‘We share an apartment.’

‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Just some clothes he asked me to bring him.’

While Bruno, aided by his fellow patrolmen, handcuffed Amadori, Zen started looking through the contents of the duffle bag. He lifted out a striped cream silk shirt bearing the Versace label and held it up to the light of the restaurant’s neon sign. Several brown stains were visible on the right-hand chest panel.

Zen called Bruno over.

‘It looks like you may have been right about there being evidence in the bag.’

Bruno peered at the shirt, unimpressed.

‘A couple of wine stains?’

‘Let’s see what the DNA tests say. But if it’s blood rather than wine, as I have reason to suppose, then we’ll have stolen both the Curti and Ugo cases back from the Carabinieri, and you’ll be a sergeant next month.’