Zagreb Cowboy by Alen Mattich Read Free Book Online

unlined so that he could condense as much information as was humanly visible onto a page in his immaculately neat, almost technical writing. He used the finest draftsman’s pen he could find.
    “Did he say anything more about Pilgrim? I never gave you a file about Pilgrim.” He’d kept a record of everything he’d passed on to Strumbić.
    “Sold.”
    “I never sold you a file about Pilgrim.”
    “Gringo, we have a deal, right?”
    “What deal?”
    “I’m honest with you and you accept the truth in an honourable and noble way.”
    “What are you telling me, Julius?”
    “We have a deal?”
    “Julius.”
    “Do we?”
    “We have a deal. I promise not to shoot you.”
    “Okay. Okay. You remember when I came round to your office with that attestation from the ex- UDBA guy who’d drowned his wife?”
    “The one I wasn’t interested in.”
    “That’s it. Remember you poured me a shot of Bell’s?”
    “How could I forget? You asked for it the second you got into the office, reminding me you’d bought it for me in the first place.”
    “And you got it out of your locked filing cabinet?”
    “Because that’s where I keep it.”
    “And then you got called away.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, I’d arranged to have your secretary give you a buzz to tell you Anzulović wanted you.”
    “Anzulović didn’t want me. He wasn’t in.”
    “That’s right.”
    “It was a mix-up, she said.”
    “It was a bottle of French perfume, she meant.”
    “I see. So you corrupted the office secretary. I’m not liking where this is going, by the way.”
    “Gringo, listen. The files you kept bringing for me, they were crap. I won’t beat around the bush, but they were crap. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, some of the stuff was amusing. Good for a laugh. A few helped me drag some favours out of people. But frankly, most of it wouldn’t have made it onto page twelve of the evening paper.”
    Della Torre figured Strumbić was exaggerating. But not much.
    “So why’d you buy them?”
    “Because, Gringo, I didn’t want to see you starve. It was my Christian duty.”
    “You’re telling me you bought files from me, that you knew were useless, as an act of charity?”
    “That sort of thing,” Strumbić said. He gave della Torre what he thought was a beneficent look, the sort a kind priest might give. But it just made him look like a hungry scavenger.
    “So you never managed to sell any of the stuff I gave you.”
    “Sold me.”
    “Sold you.”
    “There is this guy at the Italian consulate who was in the market for any old dross. But I’m telling you, Gringo, I barely broke even. I mean, once you factor in my costs, I was taking a loss on that rubbish. Once you gave me something worthwhile and I overpaid for it, thinking I’d encourage you. But you just didn’t get it.” Strumbić ignored the non-pecuniary advantages of having something on prosecutors and judges.
    “And?”
    “And, well, I felt that you owed me maybe a little more. Okay, maybe I was wrong, maybe I overstepped the bounds a little. Just a little. But can you blame me? Really?”
    “Julius.” Della Torre looked at the cop coldly, tempted to hit him. Just the once.
    “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”
    “You stole files from my office. You created a ruse to steal from me. Those were my private papers.”
    “I wouldn’t say steal. I’d say borrow. I borrowed the documents with every intention of returning them. I promise. And I was going to cut you in. Share and share alike, right?” Strumbić kept up a pleasant expression but he was pale in the light of the naked bulb and sweat beaded his brow despite the evening’s chill.
    “You know Anzulović hates it when you come round the office? Calls you a snake. He’s right.”
    “Anzulović. He and that Messar think they’re white r than white,” said Strumbić. Anzulović was the head of Department VI and Messar was one of della Torre’s colleagues. “I’ll tell you