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.