The problem had begun at school when O’Reilly discovered by sheer chance that he could copy his classmates’ signatures when they signed chits to withdraw pocket money from the school bank. By the time he had completed his first year at Trinity College, Dublin, he could forge the signatures of the provost and the bursar so well that even they believed that they had awarded him a scholarship.
While at St. Patrick’s Institution for Offenders, Bill was introduced to the bank note by Liam the Counterfeiter. When they opened the gates to let him out, the young apprentice had nothing left to learn from the master. Bill discovered that his mother was unwilling to allow him to return to the bosom of the family, so he forged the signature of the American Consul in Dublin and departed for the brave new world.
By the age of thirty, he had etched his first dollar plate. The work was so good that, during the trial that followed its discovery, the FBI acknowledged that the counterfeit was a masterpiece that would never have been detected without the help of an informer. O’Reilly was sentenced to six years and the crime desk of the San Francisco Chronicle dubbed him “Dollar Bill.”
When Dollar Bill was released from jail, he moved on to tens, twenties and later fifties, and his sentences increased in direct proportion. In between sentences he managed three wives and three divorces. Something else his mother wouldn’t have approved of.
His third wife did her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, and Bill responded by producing documents only when he couldn’t get any other work — the odd passport, the occasional driver’s license or social security claim — nothing really criminal, he assured the judge. The judge didn’t agree and sent him back down for another five years.
When Dollar Bill was released this time, nobody would touch him, so he kept his hand in at fairgrounds doing tattoos and, in desperation, sidewalk paintings which, when it didn’t rain, just about kept him in Guinness.
Bill lifted the empty glass and stared once again at the barman, who returned a look of stony indifference. He failed to notice the smartly dressed young man who took a seat on the other side of him.
“What can I get you to drink, Mr. O’Reilly?” said a voice he didn’t recognize. Bill looked around suspiciously. “I’m retired,” he declared, fearing that it was another of those young plain-clothes detectives from the San Francisco Police Department who hadn’t made his quota of arrests for the month.
“Then you won’t mind having a drink with an old con, will you?” said the younger man, revealing a slight Bronx accent.
Bill hesitated, but the thirst won.
“A pint of draft Guinness,” he said hopefully.
The young man raised his hand and this time the barman responded immediately.
“So what do you want?” asked Bill, once he’d taken a swig and was sure the barman was out of earshot.
“Your skill.”
“But I’m retired. I already told you.”
“And I heard you the first time. But what I require isn’t criminal.”
“So what are you hoping I’ll knock up for you? A copy of the Mona Lisa, or is it to be the Magna Carta?”
“Nearer home than that,” said the young man.
“Buy me another,” said Bill, staring at the empty glass that stood on the counter in front of him, “and I’ll listen to your proposition. But I warn you, I’m still retired.”
After the barman had filled Bill’s glass a second time, the young man introduced himself as Angelo Santini, and began to explain to Dollar Bill exactly what he had in mind. Angelo was grateful that at four in the afternoon there was no one else around to overhear them.
“But there are already thousands of those in circulation,” said Dollar Bill after he had listened to Angelo’s request. “You can find them all over the place. You could buy a good reproduction from any decent tourist shop.”
“Maybe, but not a perfect copy,” insisted the young man.
Dollar Bill put down his drink and thought about the statement.
“Who wants one?”
“It’s for a client who’s a collector of rare manuscripts,” Angelo said. “And he’ll pay top dollar.”
Not a bad lie, as lies go, thought Bill. He took another sip of Guinness.
“But it would take me weeks,” he said, almost under his breath. “In any case, I’d have to move to Washington.”
“We’ve already found a suitable place for you in Georgetown, and I’m sure we can lay our hands on all the materials you’d need.”
Dollar Bill considered this claim for a moment, before taking another gulp and declaring, “Forget it — it sounds too much like hard work. As I explained, it would take me weeks and, worse, I’d have to stop drinking,” he added, placing his empty glass back on the counter. “You must understand, I’m a perfectionist.”
“That’s exactly why I’ve traveled from one side of the country to the other to find you,” said Angelo quietly. Dollar Bill hesitated and looked at the young man more carefully.
“I’d want twenty-five thousand down and twenty-five thousand on completion, with all expenses paid,” said the Irishman.
The young man couldn’t believe his luck. Cavalli had authorized him to spend up to one hundred thousand dollars if he could guarantee the finished article. But then he remembered that his boss never trusted anyone who didn’t bargain.
“Ten thousand when we reach Washington and another twenty thousand on completion.”
Dollar Bill toyed with his empty glass.
“Thirty thousand on completion if you can’t tell the difference between mine and the original.”
“But we’ll need to tell the difference,” said Angelo. “You’ll get your thirty thousand if no one else can.”
The following morning a black limousine with smoked windows pulled up outside Ohio State University Hospital. The chauffeur parked in the space reserved for T. Hamilton McKenzie, as he had been instructed to do.
His only other orders were to pick up a patient at ten o’clock and drive him to the University of Cincinnati and Homes Hospital.
At 10:10, two white-coated orderlies wheeled a tall, well-built man in a chair out through the swing doors and, seeing the car parked in the dean’s space, guided him towards it. The driver jumped out and quickly opened the back door. Poor man, he thought, his head all covered in bandages and only a small crack left for his lips and nostrils. He wondered if it had been burns.
The stockily built man clambered from the wheelchair into the back, sank into the luxurious upholstery and stretched out his legs. The driver told him, “I’m going to put on your seatbelt,” and received a curt nod in response.
He returned to his seat in the front and lowered his window to say goodbye to the two orderlies and an older, rather distinguished-looking man who stood behind them. The driver had never seen such a drained face.
The limousine moved off at a sedate pace. The chauffeur had been warned not, under any circumstances, to break the speed limit.
T. Hamilton McKenzie was overcome with relief as he watched the car disappear down the hospital drive. He hoped the nightmare was at last coming to an end. The operation had taken him seven hours, and the previous night had been the first time he had slept soundly for the past week. The last order he had received was to go home and wait for Sally’s release.
When the demand had been put to him by the woman who left five dollars on the table at the Olentangy Inn, he had considered it impossible. Not, as he had suggested, on ethical grounds, but because he had thought he could never achieve a true likeness. He had wanted to explain to her about autografting, the external epithelium and the deeper corium, and how unlikely it was that... But when he saw the unnamed man in his private office, he immediately realized why they had chosen him. He was almost the right height, perhaps a shade short — an inch, no more — and he might have been five to ten pounds too light. But shoe lifts and a few Big Macs would sort out both of those problems.