Free Zagreb Cowboy by Alen Mattich Page A

sort of rigid terror della Torre had once seen in a teenage criminal he and Strumbić were interviewing. Strumbić, fed up with the boy’s posturing and refusal to be polite, had hung him by the ankles from a tower-block window until the boy fainted. Later they could see his sick streaked down the side of the building.
    All conversation across the whole of the party more or less stopped right then. People who’d lost their inhibitions to strong wine and a lovely summer’s evening grew instantly sober. Irena and della Torre were the first to leave, staying only just long enough to thank the shell-shocked host. No one would have wanted to go before them, for fear of being noticed. It didn’t do to make a member of the UDBA think you were offended by his company. But by the same token, Irena knew the party was dead, crushed by the cold, hard hand of fear, everyone trying desperately to think of everything they’d ever said to Irena’s husband that had been political or might be construed as such. Or, indeed, to Irena.
    It was probably the most unkind thing Irena had ever done in her life, and she regretted it instantly — but only on account of the people at the party, especially that poor little man. She didn’t care what della Torre thought.
    “I suppose I’m in the small bedroom,” della Torre said, while sipping on his tea in the sitting room.
    “Unless you prefer the sofa,” she said.
    “Nope, small bedroom will do. What time are you getting up?”
    “The usual.”
    “Can you wake me just after, around six-thirty? I’ve got a few things that need doing.”
    “Okay,” she said. Then, giving him a long look, she added, “Take off your trousers.”
    “Thought you’d never ask. I see my charm still works.”
    “Don’t be stupid. Take them off.”
    He did as he was told. She brought a lamp towards him and squatted down to look at his knee. It was livid, a blackish purple, and looked like it’d had a run-in with a bicycle pump.
    “How far can you bend it?”
    “Enough to push in a clutch and climb three storeys up an apartment building on the outside.”
    “Show me.”
    He winced as he flexed his leg. She prodded it, though not nearly as gently as she might have done a patient’s. But remembering how undignified Strumbić had been, he kept the whining to a minimum.
    “I’d need an X-ray to be sure, but I’m guessing a bit of ligament damage. Nothing catastrophic, but it’s not going to feel very nice. Do you want some codeine for tonight?”
    “It might be nice.”
    She noticed that he was favouring his left arm.
    “Off with the coat and shirt.”
    “Regular floor show you’re wanting. I charge by the dance.”
    “I charge by the wound. And if you’re not careful you’ll be developing a few more tonight.”
    She had to help him take his undershirt off, and then gave a knowing nod when she saw the Rorschach of bruises across his chest.
    “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’d been in a car accident but that, very sensibly, you were wearing a seatbelt.”
    “Right in one.”
    She palpitated his tender belly and under his right ribs and seemed content with the results, but when she reached around to his left side, he yelped.
    “Cracked rib maybe? Is that what it feels like?”
    “I don’t know, never cracked a rib before. Though breathing’s a bit uncomfortable.”
    “So don’t breathe, see if that makes you feel better.”
    “Haw,” he said, but that just made him cough, which he regretted.
    “Sure you don’t want to come in with me tomorrow? I can arrange a discreet X-ray.”
    “And what’s an X-ray going to tell me that you haven’t?”
    “Not much, I suspect.”
    “And what exactly am I meant to do with a ligament-damaged knee and a cracked rib?”
    “Well, if the damage is bad enough, you might need an operation from a top knee surgeon. I can recommend one in Zurich, a former colleague.”
    “Gee, thanks. You think he’ll take an old Yugo as a