altered. During Zen's time at the Questura this had been one of the most important areas in the city for recycling stolen vehicles.
The other main business of the district had been killin8, but that had ceased with the closure of the slaughterhouse complex that lay between the Testaccio hill and the river.
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 killingfloors 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 history, 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 economic climate would be enough to sweep away the outer suburbs as though they had never existed, but the Testaccio 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 apartmentblock to another. Rows of jalousies painted a dull institutional 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 particular interest in his surroundings. This was enemy territory, and he had particular reasons for not wanting to draw attention to himself. After crossing two streets running 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 motorracing 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 calendar distributed by an automobile spare-parts company, featuring a colour photograph of a peacock, along with framed permits from the city council, a price list, a notice declaring the establishment's legal closing day as Wednesday, advertisements for various brands of amaro and beer, and a drawing of a tramp inscribed 'He always gave discounts and credit to everyone'.
The three men talking in low voices at the bar fell silent as Zen entered. He walked up to them, pushing against their silent stares as though into a strong wind.
'A glass of beer.'
The barman, gaunt and lantern-jawed, plucked a bottle of beer from the fridge, levered the cap off the bottle and dumped half the beer into a glass still dripping from the draining-board. The glass was thick and scored with scratches. At the bottom, a few centimetres of beer lay inaccessible beneath a layer of bubbles as thick and white as shaving-foam.
The barman picked up a copy of the Gazzetta dello Sport.
The other customers gazed up over their empty coffee cups at the bottles of half-drunk spirits and cordials stacked on the glass shelving. Above the bar, in pride of place, stood a clock whose dial consisted of a china plate painted with a list showing the amount of time the proprietor was allegedly prepared to spend on tax collectors, rich aged relatives, door-to-door salesmen, sexy housewives and the like. Plain-clothes policemen on unofficial business were not mentioned.
Zen carefully poured the rest of the beer into the glass, dousing the bubbles. He drank half of it and then lit a cigarette.
'Fausto been in tonight?'
The second hand described an almost complete revolution of the china plate before the barman swivelled smoothly to face Zen, as though his feet were on castors.
'What?'
Zen looked him in the eye. He said nothing. Eventually the barman turned away again and picked up his newspaper. The second hand on the clock moved from 'mothers-in-law' through 'the blonde next door' and back to its starting place.
'This beer tastes like piss,' Zen said.
The pink newspaper slowly descended.
'And what do you expect me to do about it?' the barman demanded menacingly.
'Give me another one.'
The barman rocked backwards and forwards on his feet for a moment. Then he snapped open the heavy wooden door of the fridge, fished out another bottle, decapitated it and banged it down on the zinc counter. Zen took the bottle and his glass and sat down at one of the three small round metal tables covered in blue and red plastic wickerwork.
As if they had been waiting for this, the other two customers suddenly came to life. One of them fed some coins into the video-game machine, which responded with a deafening burst of electronic screams and shots. The other man strode over to Zen's table. He had slicked-back dark hair and ears that stood out from his skull like a pair of gesturing hands. There was a large soggy bruise on his forehead, his nose was broken, and his cheek had recently been slit from top to bottom. Wary of the fearful things that had happened to the rest of his face, the man's eyes cowered in deep, heavy-lidded sockets.
'All right if I sit down?' he asked, doing so.
On the video screen, a gaunt grim detective in a trenchcoat stalked a nocturnal city street. Menacing figures wielding guns appeared at windows or popped out from behind walls. If the detective shot them accurately they collapsed in a pool of blood and a number of points was added to the score, but if he missed then there was a female scream and a glimpse of the busty half-naked victim.
'I couldn't help overhearing what you said,' Zen's new companion remarked.
Zen stubbed out his cigarette in a smoked-glass ashtray printed with the name, address and telephone number of a wholesale meat supplier. All home-killed produce, read the slogan. Bulk orders our speciality. hobbled downstairs past Zen. As soon as she had gone, he walked down to the landing and knocked on the door in an authoritative way.
There was a scurry of steps inside. 'Who is it?' piped a childish voice.
'Gas Board. We've got a suspected leak to the building, got to check all the apartments.'
The door opened a crack, secured by a chain. There seemed to be no one there.
'Let me see your identification.'
Looking much lower down the opening, Zen finally spotted a small face and two eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. He got his police identity card out and dropped it through the centimetre-wide crack.
'Show this to your father.'
The eyes regarded him doubtfully. The girl couldn't have been more than about seven or eight years old. She tried to shut the door, but Zen had planted his foot in it.
The child turned away, the card held like something dangerous or disgusting between her index finger and thumb. After some time an even younger girl appeared, keeping well away from the door but watching Zen with an air of fascination.
Zen smiled at her.
'Hello, there.'
'Have you come to kill my daddy?' she asked brightly.
Before Zen could reply, the child was shooed away by a man's voice.
'Good evening, Fausto,' called Zen. 'It's been a long time.'
A figure scarcely larger than the children's appeared round the rim of the door.
