Free Zagreb Cowboy by Alen Mattich Page B

trade-in?”
    “No. As for the rib, best we can do is put your arm in a sling. But that’s just to stop it hurting. Otherwise the prescription is just a bit of tender loving care. Which you’re not going to get here.”
    “What about a warm hug?”
    “Sure, that might do you some good. Don’t know where you’re going to find one this time of night, though. And it’s only a single bed in the small bedroom, in case you start thinking of ordering in. Goodnight.”

HE JUMPED OUT of bed, startled. He instantly regretted the sudden movement. It felt like some small, vicious animal was trying to kick its way out of his head.
    He’d slept badly. Despite his tiredness, anxiety and sore ribs made worse by an overly hard mattress had given him a restless night. He’d lost consciousness only in the small hours. But his nerves remained taut. So when Irena came into his room to see if he was still sleeping, her presence triggered a sudden panic that he’d be too late to catch Anzulović.
    “Ow,” he said, the pain migrating to his knee and then to his chest. “You didn’t spend last night braining me with a frying pan by any chance, did you?”
    “Nope. The thought barely crossed my mind.”
    “Oh. Then it must have been something I ate.”
    “Liquid supper, was it?”
    “Barely a snifter.”
    “Remember, it’s not only the quantity, it’s also the quality.”
    “Gee, thanks. I’ll pop that little gem of insight in my mental drinks cabinet,” he said sarcastically, though she had a point. Strumbić’s slivovitz always left him feeling like there was no mercy left in heaven or earth. “What time is it?” He noticed she was fully dressed and wearing her outdoor shoes.
    “Don’t worry, it’s only six.”
    “Six? How long have you been up?”
    “A while. I woke up early and then couldn’t get back to sleep, so I ran a couple of errands. Got some bread for breakfast.”
    “You’re going to be dead beat. Take the day off.”
    “Gee, thanks, boss. But I can’t. I’ve got a list of appointments that if I miss, people might die.”
    Zagreb’s doctors were busy. Croats were leaving the parts of the republic where large communities of Serbs had created mini-republics, carving out a third of the province. They had grown belligerent in their desire for an independent Croatia. And the Yugoslav army was backing the Serbs. Some of those displaced Croats found shelter with relatives. Many had made their way to Zagreb. It wasn’t a big migration. Yet. But it had started to put pressure on local services, not least the hospitals.
    So far in Zagreb there was only the smell of war, the general glumness and worry. The streets were full of more uniforms than he could ever remember, ill-fitting surplus, including ridiculous baseball caps they’d copied badly from the Americans, with the ubiquitous chequerboard crest. Reserve police they were called, though nobody was fooled.
    But there were incidents in the regions, small but ugly skirmishes and sieges. Mostly it was the two sides trying to decide who they were before squaring up.
    “And don’t worry about my sleep. I can survive on a lot less than you think. You know, it’s the woman thing. We’re designed for babies crying all night and then waking before dawn,” she added.
    “Touché,” he said.
    “I also went to your flat.”
    “You’re kidding. See anything? Has anyone been around?”
    His place was, strictly speaking, an UDBA flat given to him not long after he’d joined. He and Irena had been married for a year or so and living with his father when they’d been offered the apartment. It had come up suddenly, and della Torre leapt at it.
    It had been occupied by a senior UDBA operative who had come under suspicion for reactionary views and anti-socialist leanings. And taking bribes. The file had been passed through the anti-corruption unit, where della Torre helped to check on legal details, though largely for form’s sake. People arrested by the UDBA