Adam's Rib by Antonio Manzini Page B

in her early forties, with wolfish eyes, skinny muscular legs, and a buttery white bosom that peeped out of the low neckline of her black T-shirt. “What do you think?”
    â€œOh, oh!” said her friend, “they’re wonderful.”
    â€œI won my bet!” Then she turned to Rocco. “Anna bet that you’d give me a weekend’s worth of massages. I told her you’d do much better than that.”
    Rocco smiled slyly. “Massages? Well, that wouldn’t havebeen a bad idea . . .” he said ironically. “But your friend must not have a very high opinion of me.”
    â€œAm I wrong?” Anna replied, winking at him and crossing a pair of legs sheathed in black stockings. Her defiant half smile and her half-lidded gaze were adorned with dark eye shadow, giving her dangerously alluring eyes an even more exotic look and making the police officer ridiculously horny. He’d have gladly thrown her on her back right there on the hardwood floor and licked her like a lollipop for a couple of hours at least. But that image of cheap and decadent sex was dispelled by the delicate touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Hello, Schiavone.”
    He turned around. It was Police Chief Andrea Corsi. Corsi looked at him, beaming, through his titanium-frame spectacles. “How nice to see you here.”
    They shook hands.
    â€œI know this is a celebration, but maybe at dinner you can fill me in on what’s happened. That way I won’t have to pursue you for the rest of the day tomorrow.”
    â€œCertainly.” And the deputy police chief shot a furious glare at Nora, who returned a gleaming, pearly white-toothed smile. “And afterward, Rocco, we’ll go to dinner in a new restaurant that’s just opened in the center of town. All of us together. Happy?”
    â€œOverjoyed, Nora,” the deputy police chief replied, grimly.
    He had just realized that even the second half of Roma-Inter, the Friday night game, had gone up in smoke. The most he could hope to see was the postgame highlights.

    SITTING AT A DINNER TABLE FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR was the sort of thing that irritated him, giving him a slight intermittent shiver mixed with sudden surges of heat. Rocco had long ago cataloged restaurants with slow service as a seventh-degree pain in the ass. And this new trattoria with the highly imaginative name of “La Grolla,” after a local drinking technique, couldn’t even really qualify as slow—it was dead in the water. At well past ten thirty, after a grueling two hours and fifteen minutes, they were still there, just finishing their entrées.
    Anna was across the table from him, and she’d never glanced at him the whole evening. Only once, while he was having an amiable conversation with the police chief, explaining the details of the unfortunate death of poor Esther Baudo, had Rocco turned suddenly and caught her glancing at him, but she had immediately looked away, pretending to be interested in what Pietro Bucci-something something, an interior decorator, was telling her. Gotcha! Schiavone had said inwardly. They were still waiting for the espressos, and then the cake would be the final act. The waiter came over promptly to clear the table and Rocco grabbed him by the arm. “Listen, how long will it be for the coffee?”
    â€œThey’re on their way now,” the waiter reassured him.
    â€œLet’s just hope they don’t get lost, though,” said Rocco, releasing the waiter’s arm. He couldn’t hold outmuch longer. He was exhausted. He felt like throwing up and his ass was starting to feel numb and at the same time, tingle with pins and needles. The police chief was already worrying about what to say to the news vendors, which is what he always called the detested creatures of the press, and he’d started off on his usual rant. “Tell me something more, Schiavone. I’m going to have tell those people