"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 04" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

chase, but having nothing better to do he looked up
Lusetti in the telephone directory and rang the number. An
uneducated female voice informed him that Dottor Lusetti
was at the university. After a series of abortive phone calls
to various departments of this institution, Zen eventually
discovered that the car which had been parked near his
house for the two previous nights was owned by the
Professor of Philology in the Faculty of Humanities at the
University of Rome.
Giorgio De Angelis wandered into Zen's cubicle while
he was making the last of these calls.
'Problems?' he asked as Zen hung up.
Zen shrugged. 'Just a private matter. Someone keeps
parking his car in front of my door.'
'Give his windscreen a good coat of varnish,' De Angelis
advised. 'Polyurethane's the best. Weatherproof, durable,
opaque. An absolute bastard to get off.'
Zen nodded. 'What's this you've been telling Romizi
about a train that goes round in circles?'
De Angelis laughed raucously, throwing his head back
and showing his teeth. Then he glanced round the screens
to check that the official in question wasn't within earshot.
'That fucking Romizi! He'd believe anything. You know
he loves anchovy paste? But he's a tight bastard, so he's
always moaning about how much it costs. So I said to him,
"Listen, do you want to know how to make it yourself?
You get a cat, right? You feed the cat on anchovies and
olive oil, nothing else. What comes out the other end is
anchovy paste." '
'He didn't believe you, did he?'
'I don't know. I wouldn't be surprised if he gives it a try.
I just wish I could be there. What I'd give to see him
spreading cat shit on a cracker!'
As De Angelis burst out laughing again, a movement
nearby attracted Zen's attention. He turned to find Vin-
cenzo Fabri looking at them through a gap in the screens.
He was wearing a canary yellow pullover and a pale blue
tie, with a marooh sports jacket and slacks, and chunky
hand-stiched shoes. Expensive leisurewear was Fabri's
hallmark, matching his gestures, slow and calm, and his
deep, melodious voice. 'I'm so relaxed, so laid back,' the
look said, 'just a lazy old softy who wants an easy time.'
Zen, who still wore a suit to work, felt by comparison
like an old-fashioned ministerial apparatchik, a dull, dedi-
cated workaholic. The irony was that Vincenzo Fabri was
the most fiercely ambitious person Zen had come across in
the whole of his career. E4is conversation was larded with
references to country clubs, horses, tennis, sailing and
holidays in Brazil. Fabri wanted all that and more. He
wanted villas and cars and yachts and clothes and women.