in. Mostly, Benito noted, middle-aged or elderly men who took the needs of the stomach seriously, by the looks of them.
The waiter appeared from the smoky kitchen sooner than Benito had expected, not that his empty stomach was going to complain. The man seemed bent on proving that, besides being a waiter in a sky-high–priced taverna, he had all the skills of a juggler. He carried a carafe of wine, a bowl of bread-rings, a platter of chargrilled baby octopus redolent of thyme and garlic with just a hint of bay leaf, a jug of extra sauce, and some olive oil and vinegar. He brought a plate of Melanzane alla finitese next, the crumbed aubergine slices bursting with hot melted cheese.
'Eat up. The cook gets upset if you aren't ready for the swordfish the minute it arrives. And do you need more wine?'
The fish, when it came, was worth suffering a fussy cook for. The succulent flesh, scented with bergamot, capers and oregano, was the kind of dish whereby gastronomes set their standards. Somehow, outside of this meal, the thoughts of finding a fence seemed far less threatening. Maybe it was the carafe of wine from the local Greco di Bianco grapes. They were a great improvement on the stuff he had drunk with Taki, Spiro and Kosti.
Feeling full, and almost somnolent, Benito parted with his silver and, as a well-deserved tip for the waiter, the rest of his coppers. He then went out looking for an alley in which to get mugged.
It seemed like a good idea at the time it had occurred to him. If he wanted to find a fence . . . ask a thief. Finding a thief just took some bait. Benito hoped he would get a solitary operator, and that he was able to avoid getting hurt first and robbed after, not that the mugger was going to be very pleased with the state of Benito's pouch. Well, that made two of them. Benito wasn't very comfortable about its flatness himself.
A little later, someone did oblige him. Very professionally. The thief stepped out of the shadows, put an arm around Benito's neck and a knife against his kidneys. 'Don't try and turn around. Just give us the pouch and you'll stay alive.'
With a calm that belied his racing heart, Benito untied the pouch and held it out.
'Drop it.'
'You might want to look in it before I do that.'
'Why?' asked the mugger suspiciously. 'What's in it?'
'Absolutely nothing. Not even a copper penny.'
'Damn liar.' The mugger swung him around. 'You're loaded. You ate at old Forno's. Give the money belt.'
Benito lifted his shirt to show skin. 'There isn't one. I spent it all. Every last penny.'
The mugger gaped. 'Wha—'
He never got any further than that. He found he'd been neatly disarmed and now faced his own knife and Benito's Shetland blade. Benito shook his head. 'Never let yourself get distracted, my friend.'
The mugger showed both courage and a sense of humor. 'Well, I haven't got any money either.' His eyes darted, looking for escape.
Benito flipped the mugger's knife over, and held it out, hilt first, to the man. 'You can have it back. I'm not interested in your money. All I want is some information. If you wanted to sell something, ah . . . with ownership claims other than yours, where would you go? Who is buying?'
The mugger took the knife warily, not sheathing it. 'Di Scala. He's the only big-time buyer in town. Follow the quay to the end. There's an alley there. It's up the stairs in the third last house.'
'Thanks.'
The mugger shook his head. 'Watch him, laddie. He's bent.' Which was about the worst thing a thief could ever say about a fence.
* * *
Di Scala looked like an underfed vulture. The fence shaded his hooded eyes with a skeletally thin hand.
'It's a fake,' he pronounced, shaking his head. 'A good fake, but a fake. I'll give you a florin for it.' He took a golden coin from his desk and pushed it toward Benito.
'It's no sale,' said Benito, grimly. The ruby was worth at the very least thirty ducats, a coin whose greater purity made it more valuable than the florin.
The fence tapped his long fingers. 'The sale is not up for negotiation.'
The faintest of sounds made Benito realize that they were no longer alone. That finger-tapping on the desk had been more than just a mannerism.
He glanced back. The two men who had come in behind him had that heavy-set look of brutality common to all enforcers. Between the two of them, there was enough flesh to make three of Benito, with a fourth not being that far off.
One of them cracked his knuckles. 'You called, boss.'
The fence nodded. 'This fellow will be leaving. Now. With or without his money, but without this.' He held up the ruby.
Benito considered his options, which weren't good. The sleazy little room offered him no space to maneuver. And the rent-a-thugs coming to grab his elbows were distinctly better than average.
Right now, he reminded himself, his primary task was to get to Venice as fast as he possibly could. 'I'll take my money,' he whined, cringing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bully boys relaxing. Not unready to hurt and possibly maim, but not expecting any resistance. He could take them . . .
Resolutely he put the thought aside and reached gingerly for the florin. 'It's not fair,' he complained, hangdog, looking at the coin.
