Burmeister nodded.
Quayle stood in the doorway, larger than life. In the room, the woman shrieked with delight and waddled to him, her mammoth arms encircling his waist like elephant trunks, lifting and hugging him all at once.
“Put me down Florentina,” he said, still laughing.
She dropped him and stood, solid as a building, her tiny hands on immense water tank hips.
“So where have you been?” she bellowed. “Three years or more! Keep doing that and I will never marry you!” She wobbled with laughter before remembering her manners. “Coffee. I will make coffee. You will want Papa. He is coming, but until then sit and take coffee and talk with me.”
She beckoned with one huge sweep of her arm and he followed her into the kitchen.
“How is he?” Quayle asked.
“Good enough for his age. His heart –” she made a very Italian waggling hand gesture, “– but the shop does well.”
The shop was a small dusty gallery behind St Marks, where Eduardo Rocca sold minor modern masters, etchings, sculptures and the odd very good forgery. Venice had long been the home of many of Europe’s best forgers and, in the tradition set by his father, Eduardo would move two or three a month, mostly to American and British buyers. As forgeries went they were outstanding. Several had passed through the famous auction houses in recent years, gaining the valuable transfer records and receipts that were accepted as authentications by most.
He had asked Quayle to paint for him on several occasions and, although Quayle had refused, he had valued and appraised several fine Russian pieces over the years, catching Eduardo out on three.
When Eduardo finally arrived home, a bright smile creased his old lined face at the sight of Quayle. “So you are back,” he said in English. “Welcome, welcome!”
“I am, Eduardo. Thank you.”
“You have come to paint for me? Eh?”
“I am but an amateur compared with the masters you have!” Quayle said gallantly.
“Ha!” Eduardo said raising his hands to the ceiling. “Flattery no less! Florentina, bring a bottle of wine. A good one.” And, as the big girl waddled off to find one, Eduardo led Quayle onto the tiny balcony over the canal, bright with potted geraniums and painted sills. On the street below, a noisy restaurant served meals to tourists.
Eduardo took Quayle’s hands, lifting them to the light.
“Someone didn’t like what you were doing,” he said bitterly. “Can you still work?”
Quayle nodded.
“And you didn’t come here for idle gossip or sympathy,” he said softly.
“I need to see the boatman,” Quayle said.
Eduardo raised an eyebrow. The boatman was a forger but of a different kind. He supplied share transfer papers, passports, birth certificates, licences and the like. He was the best in Southern Europe and preferred to alter the original wherever possible. These days he was a hard man to find. He used cut-outs and rarely saw a client in person after a set of documents he provided landed a Mafia Cappo in a prison in New Jersey. He knew that the Americans had switched to computers that summer, but the Mafia had supplied the originals. He was not to know they were red hot. The end result had been a contract on his head and, being a natural coward, he went underground in the city of the canals, as far from the hot Mafia drylands of the south as possible.
“That is always difficult, Titus.”
“I know. But I need a job done. Must be him, he is still the best.”
“Leave it with me.”
“No,” said Quayle. “I don’t want you involved. This one is likely to get nasty. I’m at the Gabrielli. Room Seventeen. Have him contact me. I will meet him anywhere he likes.”
Eduardo shook his head. “No good. He won’t see anyone but those he knows. You will have to use me. Tell me what you need so I can tell him.”
Quayle thought about it for a second. He wanted to avoid using the old man at any cost, but he needed the papers badly. “Passports. Good ones. EEC. Two each for these photos.” He held out a small packet. “Then I want him to re-work these. They’ll only be good for one try each, but it will all help.”
“I will try him tonight,” Eduardo said.
“After that, you stay out of it,” Quayle replied. “Tell him to use a drop to get them back to me.” He handed over another envelope. “This should cover the work.”
“Come to the shop tomorrow.”
For a moment, Quayle was silent. Then he dared to venture, “Another couple of favours Eduardo…”
“Name them,” the old man said proudly. He had always liked Quayle.
“Your nephew still in the gun club? I need to get a friend of mine on a range for half an hour. Some time quiet, if you know what I mean. I also need a couple of things…” He handed over a small list.
Eduardo looked and raised an eyebrow. “Should be all right. He is the membership secretary. He owes me money and he owes me silence. He is sleeping with a sixteen year old girl in the church choir. His wife would be very unimpressed. The youth of today,” he sighed sadly. “I’ll line up something for tomorrow night.”
“Thanks Eduardo. I
