With Allison calling out directions, Tom crossed the river to avoid the congestion and one-way streets in the historical center. From the road on the south bank, he could see the Ponte Vecchio with its collection of little shops. Stone arches reflected in the lazy green water. Allison tapped on his shoulder and pointed out the Uffizi museum and the terra-cotta dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, Il Duomo. She put her chin on his shoulder. “Tomorrow! You have to come with me. I’ll show you Firenze!”
They crossed the river again on the Amerigo Vespucci Bridge and took a right to the Hotel Cellini, five stories of marble with a rooftop terrace overlooking the city. The doorman waved Tom toward the next street, where he parked in another long line of scooters.
Taking off his helmet, he heard his cell phone ringing in his thigh pocket. He reached in and looked at the screen. “It’s Rose.”
“Answer it,” Allison said. “We can be a few minutes late.”
“Hey, Rose. What’s up?”
Bad news. The Weasel was asking questions again. Why hadn’t Tom started his anger management classes? Why had his landlord, Fritz Klein, made excuses for his not being home? Mr. Weems had told Rose he’d tried to reach her brother through the cell phone Tom had last used, and he had heard a woman’s voice telling him she would be out of town for a couple of weeks, leave a message. Where was Tom Fairchild?
Rose said, “Tom, you need to get back here soon. I’m very nervous about this.”
“Oh, great. What did you tell him?”
“That you and he were just missing each other, I guess.”
“Okay. Stall him as long as you can. I’ll be back in Miami in about ten days, if nothing gets screwed up here.”
When he ended the call, Allison said, “Your probation officer.”
“Damn it.”
“Use my cell phone to call him,” she said.
“He smells something fishy with that number. I’ll have to come up with another idea.”
“My father has a Miami number. Use his cell phone.”
“Uh-huh, sure. Come on, let’s get this over with.” He took the messenger bag from Allison, who had worn it on her back. Tom had brought his notebook computer, some color screen shots of the map, and a sample engraving plate.
She put her arms around his waist and looked at him earnestly. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Tom. I’ll lie for you. I’ll tell the Weasel you were with me. If he does file a probation violation, we’ll fight it. I don’t care how much it costs. No, listen to me. I don’t want you going to prison for six years. Not for six days. In fact, when we get back to Miami, I’m going to ask one of the lawyers at my firm to take your case.”
Tom reluctantly said if she wanted to, he wouldn’t object, even as he knew that the Weasel would make it his goal in life to see Tom Fairchild behind bars.
The Barlowes didn’t have a room; they had a suite whose decorator had been told to go crazy. The twenty-foot ceilings had been painted with alternating fleur-de-lis squares of Florentine orange and blue that matched the pattern in the heavy curtains, which were held open with braided silk ropes with gold tassels. There were enough carved and gilded mirrors, reproduction tapestries, Venetian crystal chandeliers, wall sconces, potted plants, and rose-and-ivory silk upholsteries to induce nausea. Sliding doors opened onto a bedroom with more of the same stuff, including a king-size bed under a brocade canopy.
Allison and her father took the sofa. Tom sat on the blue velvet cushion of a medieval folding chair and unloaded his bag onto a thick piece of beveled glass that rested on ornate gold legs. He turned on the computer and brought up the file. Mrs. Barlowe sat across from him rotating the toe of her pink suede pump and sipping a glass of red wine. Tom guessed she had chosen the hotel.
She had met them warmly at the door, but the looks she was giving Tom across the table said that if he mentioned her attempted bribe, she wouldn’t know anything about it. She was the kind of woman you wouldn’t care to be alone with on a sixth-floor balcony.
Room service had brought in a tray of cheese and fruit, but Tom was too keyed up to want any. After explaining how the map would be made, he walked over to the window to wait for Barlowe’s reaction. He could see the Arno and the purple-blue hills in the distance, and slender cypress trees, and others that formed a perfect semicircle of branches. He brought his gaze downriver, passed a crenellated tower or two, then the Ponte Vecchio, and a half mile beyond that, somewhere in the jumble of streets, was the print shop where Eddie was at this moment slipping five hundred euros to one of the pressmen.
“I’m not sure about this.” Barlowe stared at the computer screen. “I don’t know how it can work.” His voice sounded strained, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Mr. Barlowe, the map is going to be perfect,” Tom said. “That’s what you wanted, and that’s what I’m giving you.”
“But it’s on a computer. I told you, I wanted a duplicate original.”
Allison broke in. “Dad, he explained it. He’s making a new engraving plate.”
“These prints don’t show me the texture of the paper, do they? Where is the original? You should have brought it so we can compare the two.”
“I don’t have it with me,” Tom said.
“I see that. Can you bring it?”
“No, I can’t. It’s not in Florence.”
Rhonda said quietly, “I think what he means, Stuart, is that he’s keeping the original until he collects fifteen thousand dollars tomorrow. If you can’t make a comparison, you can’t refuse to pay him.”
Allison said, “Rhonda, please let my father decide.”
“Look, darling. Your father and I are in this together. I’m not sure where your loyalty lies.”
As Allison started to reply, Barlowe said sharply, “Rhonda. Please.”
“All right, but I don’t want you taken advantage of— not by anyone.”
“I appreciate that. Now let me talk to Mr. Fairchild.” He raked his hair off his forehead. “Tom, how soon can you have the map finished?”
“When we originally talked, you said you wanted it within three weeks. That’s eleven days from now. That’s what I’m projecting.”
“I need it sooner than that. Can you get it to me within a week?”
Tom exchanged a look with Allison. “No. I can’t do it that fast.”
“If you’re doing the engraving plate from a scan, I don’t see why it takes so long.”
“I can’t do it from the scan. I’ve explained about the ink bleed. If you want a halfway job, I can give it to you, but you wanted it done right.”
“I want it done quickly.”
Allison said, “Tom has been working as fast as he can according to the terms you agreed on.”
“Isn’t she the lawyer, though?” Rhonda refilled her glass. “Sounds like she’s negotiating for Mr. Fairchild.”
“I am trying to ensure that this project is done,” Allison retorted, “and that the quality is up to my father’s demands.”
“Are you and Mr. Fairchild lovers?”
Allison colored. “Oh! How dare you say that to me?”
“I don’t care from a moral standpoint,” Rhonda said, “but a man with a criminal past ...A person has to wonder what’s going on.”
Tom said, “Excuse me? It’s none of your business what Allison does. She’s not a child.”
“He defends you. How telling.”
Barlowe murmured, “Rhonda, please.”
Allison stood over her stepmother with her hands in fists. “You’ve always hated me, haven’t you?”
“No, I just don’t trust you. You’ve done everything possible to come between me and Stuart. You failed to make partner at the law firm in Boston, and here you are, wanting to be a daughter. How sweet, after all these years. Excuse me for thinking you’re after something else.”
“Rhonda, shut the hell up! Stop it! Both of you, stop it!” Barlowe’s voice cracked. When the room was quiet, he looked at Tom. “Talk to me
, Mr. Fairchild. Can you possibly get the map done faster? Possibly?” The lines in his cheeks deepened with a smile that resembled a grimace. “If I increased your fee, could you get it done a week from today? How much do you require?”
“Who’s it for, Mr. Barlowe? Why do you want it so fast? If I’m going to bust my ass for a piece of paper, I’d like to know why.”
“Ten thousand? An increase of twenty percent seems fair.”
Exhaling heavily, Tom turned around and pressed a hand to his forehead. “That wasn’t the deal.”
“Twenty. No, let’s say an extra fifty. A total of one hundred thousand dollars.”
Rhonda Barlowe’s wineglass stopped on its way to her lips. “Stuart.” She stared at her husband as if he had lost his mind. “My God, Stuart.”
“Change of terms,” Barlowe announced. “I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars for that map. Allison, you are authorized to transfer fifteen thousand tomorrow and the balance of fifty thousand to Mr. Fairchild a week from today, when the job is finished.”
Allison was shaking her head slowly, wanting an answer from Tom. He said, “I’ll try.”
“You’ll do more than try. Let me ask you again. Can you get the map to me within a week?”
Allison clung to his back, and even with the noise of the scooter and the traffic, Tom thought he heard her crying. He pulled off the road and went into a grove of cypress trees in a little park.
They were tears of anger. When Tom tried to put his arms around her, Allison ran into the park, picked up a rock, and flung it into the trees. Then another one, and one more. “I hate her. I hate both of them. That miserable bitch has changed him into someone I don’t even know. I must be crazy thinking we could ever have a relationship.”
She threw more rocks until she was spent. Tom went over and put his chin on top of her head. “Feel better now?”
“Tom, you shouldn’t have said you’d do the map in a week. What if you can’t?”
“A week is possible. I can do it. I’m nearly finished, and the rest depends on Eddie.” He gave her a squeeze. “It means more time at my computer, less with you.”
“Why did you avoid telling them the truth? We are sleeping together.” She turned to face him. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
“You used to be,” Tom said and immediately added, “Sorry. I guess things are different now.”
“I hope they are.” Her deep brown eyes fixed on his. “What am I doing here? My father is dealing directly with you. I’m useless. I might as well go home.”
“Come on, Allison—”
Twelve years ago, Tom might have said sure, go home, then. Be that way. But now he could see what she really wanted to know. He tilted his head, came close to her lips, and said, “No. You’re staying. Don’t make me get out the handcuffs.”
She laughed and let him kiss her.
“Let’s get going,” he said.
“Tom, wait. You should know the truth. The map isn’t for my father. It’s for one of the investors in The Metropolis. His name is Leo Zurin. He’s a Russian map collector. Mr. Zurin has been trying for years to reconstruct Gaetano Corelli’s only atlas, which had been in his family for a long time. It was seized by the Communists and put in a museum in Latvia. Somebody stole it and cut the maps out. Mr. Zurin found them all except the world map. My father found that one and promised to give it to him, sort of a thank-you for investing, and if Mr. Zurin doesn’t get it, he’ll throw a hissy fit and withhold his money. It’s a lot—five million dollars. My father needs it to prove to the bank that he has the financial strength to be a partner in the development. It’s complicated.”
“No, I’m following you,” Tom said. “Stuart couldn’t give Mr. Zurin the real map, so he wanted me to make a duplicate.”
“He came to my apartment begging me to help him. He’s never done that before! How could I say no? He could be wiped out from this, Tom. I didn’t like the idea of a forgery, but I thought...on balance, that it was worth it. Maybe it is. When Mr. Zurin has his map, and Stuart can stop taking pills for his nerves, maybe he’ll be himself again.”
Tom hesitated, then said, “The funny thing is—and don’t bring it up with your dad because it would just start a fight—Rhonda offered me ten grand not to make the map. I’m serious. Before I got on Larry’s boat she took me in the map room and showed me the cash. I said forget it, I had a deal with Mr. Barlowe.”
“Oh, my God. Why did she do that?”
“She said your dad was obsessed with guilt because Royce Herron was shot holding the map, and she wanted him to get over it. Looks like she changed her mind.”
“Rhonda is the crazy one. You should have said something back there!”
“No! Jesus, no. Look, everything’s fine. I get another fifteen thousand today, I do the map, I collect another fifty in a week. I go home, pay my restitution, and tell the Weasel to kiss my ass. Do not rock the boat. Please.”
Allison didn’t like that; he could tell. He hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her close. “I want you in the picture too, babe. If I don’t get this map done, what have I got? Just a rap sheet and a broken down sailboat that’s never going to see the water. You deserve better.”
“Oh, thank you for telling me how shallow I am.”
“All your friends would say, ‘What are you going out with him for?’ ”
“I don’t care what people say about me.”
“Yeah, you do. You should. You try not to, but you have to live in the world. I’ve learned that much.” He gave her a helmet. “I’ll get the map done on time, and it’s going to be good. It’s going to be perfect. When I put my hand out for that last fifty thousand dollars, I don’t want to hear anybody bitching and moaning about it. I’m not talking about you. I mean your dad and that...person he’s married to.”
Allison snapped her helmet under her chin, and a sudden smile curved her lips. “Did you hear him scream at her?”
“Maybe she’s on her way out.” Tom sat on the scooter and started the engine.
“I can only hope,” Allison said.
They went back to the hotel. Eddie had chosen the Hotel Brianza in the San Niccolò district across the river. Their rooms were on the third floor, accessible by a creaking elevator hardly bigger than a phone booth. The minuscule bathrooms had been added a century ago, and the gas heat came from a register in the floor. But they had a view. They opened the old wooden shutters, uncorked a bottle of wine, and watched the hills change from green to blue to purple as the sun went down. Then Tom turned on his computer, and Allison leaned against the pillows on the double bed to study. She was keeping her feet warm with two pairs of socks.
At 6:30 PM Eddie called from the print shop. They were ready to do some tests on the antique printing press and needed to look at the original map. Eddie said to bring Allison, too, if she wanted to come.
Tom said to hold on, he would ask.
“Right now? I thought we were going to go eat.”
“Eddie,” Tom said into the phone, “how long will this take? Allison’s hungry.”
An hour, Eddie told him, and Allison agreed she could wait that long, and no, she didn’t want to go to the print shop, thanks all the same.
Tom put on his jacket and hung the map tube across his back. He kissed Allison and went out the door. In a hurry, he took the stairs, which turned around the metal-mesh cage of the elevator. A couple of French tourists stood at the reception desk, checking in. Tom walked through the small lobby and went around to the alley at the side of the building. There was a bar next door, and the patrons had locked their scooters to a long iron railing in the wall. Tom had left his among them.
Eddie had told him to turn east on the road along the river. Pass two bridges, then take the third street to the right after the Piazza Ravenna. Turn left at Ristorante La Flamma, then look for a sign, LUCCHESE E FIGLI. That would be the print shop.
As Tom was unlocking the scooter he heard footsteps and glanced up. A man had come into
the alley, a stocky figure about Tom’s height, a silhouette in the light from the street. Tom thought he had probably parked in the alley, too, but the man slowed his steps and walked past the other scooters. Tom pulled the steel locking cable out of the wheel.
“Hey, Tom.”
He whirled around.
“Take it easy,” the voice said. “It’s only me.” The man stepped out into the light, and Tom could see his face.
Larry Gerard.
Chapter 23
Larry stood a couple of yards away, his smile showing in the dim light of a metal-shaded bulb at the other end of the alley. His hands were in the pockets of his brown zip-front jacket. Vines grew in front of the light, and their shadows moved across his face.
“What are you doing here?” Tom demanded. “I need to talk to you. I followed you and Allison from the Cellini, but I didn’t want to come up to your room with her there. Can I buy you a drink?”
Tom looped the cable and lock around his hand. “No, you can’t buy me a drink. Just say what you have to and leave.”
“You’re still mad about what happened on the boat, aren’t you? My apologies, though I swear to you, I did not know Marek would flip out like that. Did not know.”
“Where is Marek?”
“I left him in Nassau, and he flew home—back to Dubrovnik, I expect. You’ve got a map tube. What’s in it? The Corelli or the copy?”
“Why don’t you shove off?” Tom said.
Larry rested his left hand on the scooter windshield; tapped the top of it with his open palm. “Okay, what I wanted to say. Stuart just upped your fee for the Corelli to a hundred grand. Don’t hold your breath waiting for it. The map isn’t for Stuart. It’s for a friend of his, a map collector who is more than familiar with Corelli. There’s a high probability that he’s going to see yours for the forgery it is, and if that happens...we’re you and me both up the creek. This man, Stuart’s friend, has promised to put a ton of money into The Metropolis, but if he thinks he’s been cheated with a phony map, he’ll back out. This is why my mother offered you ten thousand dollars to walk away. That wasn’t enough, obviously. So let’s talk about a figure we can agree on.”
The Perfect Fake Page 24
