"Dibdin, Michael - Aurelio Zen 02 - Vendetta UC - part 06" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dibdin Michael)

Any killing that went on now was related to the part-time
activities of some of the inhabitants, of which the trade in
second-hand cars was only the most notable example. As
for the abattoir, it was now a mecca for aspirant yuppies
like Vincenzo Fabri, who thronged to the former killing-
floors in their Mercedes and B M Ws to acquire the art of
sitting on a horse. Opposite, a few exclusive night-clubs
had sprung up to attract those of the city's gilded youth
who liked to go slumming in safety.
Skirting the ox-blood-red walls of the slaughterhouse,
Zen walked on into the grid of streets beyond. Although
no more lovely than the suburb where Tania and her
husband lived, Testaccio was quite different. It had a his-
tory, for one thing: two thousand years of it, dating back to
the time when the area was the port of Rome and the hill
in its midst had gradually been built up from fragments of
amphorae broken in transit or handling. The four-square,
turn-of-the-century tenements which now lined the streets
were merely the latest expression of its essentially gritty,
no-nonsense character. The merest change in the eco-
nomic climate would be enough to sweep away the outer
suburbs as though they had never existed, but the Testac-
cio quarter would be there for ever, lodged in Rome's
throat like a bone.
Night had fallen. The street was sparsely lit by lamps
suspended on cables strung across from one apartment-
block to another. Rows of jalousies painted a dull institu-
tional green punctuated the expanses of bare walling. In
an area where cars were a medium of exchange rather than
a symbol of disposable income, it was still possible to park
in an orderly fashion at an angle to the kerb, leaving the
pavements free for pedestrians. Zen walked steadily
along, neither hurrying nor loitering, showing no par-
ticular interest in his surroundings. This was enemy terri-
tory, and he had particular reasons for not wanting to
draw attention to himself. After crossing two streets run-
ning at right angles, he caught sight of his destination, a
block of shops and businesses comprising a butcher's, a
barber's, a grocery and a paint wholesaler's. Between the
barber's and the butcher's lay the Rally Bar.
It was years since Zen had set foot there, but as soon as he
walked in he saw that nothing had changed. The walls and
the high ceiling were painted in the same terminal shade of
brown and decorated with large photographs of motor-
racing scenes and the Juventus football team, and posters
illustrating the various ice-creams available from the freezer
at the end of the bar. Two bare neon strips suspended by
chains from the ceiling dispensed a frigid, even glare
reflected back by the indestructible slabs of highly polished
aggregate on the floor. Above the bar hung a tear-off