First things first, Benito decided, when he arrived in Reggio di Calabria. He still had two silver pennies—he'd told that rogue of an oil trader he only had one to avoid trouble. He'd need money, but right now, immediately if not sooner, he needed food.
He found a very respectable-looking taverna next to the quay, plainly not a seaman's place, but aimed at the clerks and minor merchants who worked down there. It was a bit above his present guise, but . . . the bouquet drifting out of the doorway was pure temptation.
Benito had never been very good at resisting that kind of temptation. Or most any other, for that matter. He went in, looked around the crowded room for a seat, and finally took his place at the end of one of the benches. The clerkly type next to him gave him an opaque glance, but at least he didn't pull in the skirts of his coat.
The waiter looked rather doubtfully at Benito. "You have money?" he asked. The tone was carefully neutral. As likely as not, given the proximity to the quay, occasional sailors fresh off a ship and with their pockets full came this way.
Benito nodded. The waiter took a quick glance toward the kitchens, and then whispered to Benito: "I shouldn't say this, but my brother's a seafaring man. The prices here are sky-high. The food's good, so long as you don't touch the pork. But there is a cheaper place down the quay. The food is lousy but it's cheap."
Benito grinned at the fellow, and winked. "Well, this time I'll go with the good food with sky-high prices. Will two silver cover it and a jug of wine?" It was foolishness to spend down to the reserves, but Benito felt in need of a bit of foolishness. Finding a fence in a strange seaport was going to be a challenge.
The waiter nodded. "Si. I'll see you get the best," and he was scurrying off to the kitchen.
Benito had timed his arrival well. He hadn't been sitting for more than a few minutes when the locals came 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.
Di Scala laughed sardonically. "And how you came by the loot was, of course."
Benito hunched his shoulders still more. "It was my grandmother's."
"Yes. Very likely. Now get lost."
"I won't bring you any more stuff."
"I will sob myself to sleep tonight," sniffed Di Scala. "You aren't from round here anyway. That's enough money for you to waste on wine and whores. You're lucky I don't let the boys just drop you over the wharf with a couple of weights on your feet—and if you don't get out of here, that's just what I will do. Get."
Benito got. "There's no need to push," he snarled at the thugs on the rickety stair. He was rewarded by a buffet and them grabbing his pouch. They took the florin reposed there, kicked him out to sprawl in an alley, and threw his empty pouch after him. The alley was narrow, slippery and reeking with ordure. He got up and staggered away, theatrically waving a fist at the laughing pair.
They'd have laughed less if they'd seen him round the corner and then grease up a drainage pipe. Before they were back inside, Benito was lying in the shelter of a chimney pot just behind the shady lip of an eave of a house beyond.
Watching. Without money he wasn't going anywhere anyway. He'd allowed himself to get careless. Rusty. Overconfident. He still had one jewel, but if he sold it anywhere in this town news was bound to get out, and they'd be looking for him.
Besides, he'd discovered that he had an extreme dislike of being robbed. It occurred to him, with somewhat wry amusement, that some of his own victims over the years might have felt just as angry. There was a kind of justice in it, he supposed, but he needed money to get to Venice. Corfu needed help. Maria needed that help. So did that kid of hers.
He waited and watched. A fence's busiest hours would be toward early morning—this rogue wasn't going anywhere. As the night wore on, he'd just get more careful.
Benito had no money and nothing else to do, after all. He steeled himself—as he'd done often enough above the canals of Venice, in years past—to ignore hunger, cold and tiredness. At least this time, hunger wasn't part of the equation; that excellent meal was still enough with him that his stomach was happy, but not so much as to slow him down.
Eventually, Di Scala and his two thugs appeared on the street. Moving surely and silently across the roofs, Benito trailed the fence back to Di Scala's own house. That was where the fence would keep his stash, he was sure.
The two thugs followed Di Scala into the house; then, a few minutes later, they emerged and headed off to wherever they slept themselves. As soon as they were gone, Benito came out of hiding and swung into position. Hanging like a bat from the eaves, he watched the fence through a shutter-crack in his bedroom. The man unlocked his cassone, opened up a cunningly disguised compartment in its lid and secreted some coin into it, and an item of what was probably jewelry.
Smiling to himself, Benito found a rooftop corner, rolled himself into a ball and slept. By midday he was back at his post. He watched the fence leave. As soon as darkness provided cover, Benito began slipping tiles from the roof, as quietly as possible. Then, he eased planks from the ceiling with the Shetland knife. It was proving a good, strong tool. Not exactly a Ferrara main gauche, but a workingman's ideal knife.
Lightly, Benito dropped into the fence's bedroom. He made no attempt to force the lock on the cassone—it would be a good one. Besides, the hidden compartment probably had a booby trap. Instead he set to work with the knife on the board making up the back edge, being careful not to move the cassone itself. That might have unpleasant consequences. There'd been a case like that back in Venice. The thief had lost his hands, his sight, and, because he was caught in the screaming aftermath, his life.
Benito was not planning to chance imitating him. He cut a neat slot through the solid wood, and then tipped the cassone. It wasn't the most effective way of getting money out, but Benito was rewarded by a succession of coins and bits and pieces. He put them all hastily into his pouch, before leaving the way he'd come. As neat a job as he'd ever done, and as well-deserved a one as he'd ever pulled, thought Benito, quietly slipping out onto the roof.
But, as Valentina had taught him—in what seemed a lifetime away—the job wasn't done until you were clean away. Benito had done his homework. Two boats carrying fresh produce for the market in Messina left long before first light from Reggio di Calabria to have the crisp wares unloaded and in the market by dawn. This morning they took an uninvited fresh thief as well as their fresh vegetables. He had the grace to get off quietly on the Messina quay-side, carry a load of carrots to the waiting wagon, and even to steal only one carrot.
It was fairly woody, but, munching at the purple root as he went in search of a taverna, Benito found it remarkably pleasant. Sweet and tasty, even. His nose led him to a panetteria where stevedores were already buying hot ciabatta, before going on to a stall where a butcher was selling liver and tripe ragout from a steaming pot, at a copper a dip of the loaf. Benito felt in his pouch. He hadn't really investigated what his loot was yet.
What his fingers encountered was round—but not money. He stepped into a noisome alley to check it out.
He had to laugh. What he'd assumed was money was valuable all right. It just wasn't currency or saleable, except by priests. He had acquired some fifteen golden Hypatian medals. Four pilgrim medals, also golden, struck in Jerusalem, engraved with the pilgrim's name, some twenty-three pieces of silver of some foreign origin—a coin he'd never seen before—and . . . a ruby.
His ruby. Well, there was some justice in the world.