The Lizard's Bite

IT WAS MORE THAN A BOAT. IT WAS A FLOATING LIMOUSINE. The deck was polished walnut, gleaming under the sun, with a helmsman in a white uniform at the open wheel. The five of them sat in the covered cabin behind, on plush antique brown leather seats, Randazzo and Massiter on one side, both smoking. The three Romans opposite remained silent, each of them, Costa thought, more than a touch apprehensive, and in Peroni’s case downright furious.

“I’m sorry if we interrupted something,” Massiter said as the vessel eased out from the waterfront, out towards the dockyards and Murano. It had taken just over fifteen minutes to get from the station to the jetty close to the Giardini vaporetto stop. From there Costa and Peroni had led the two women to the police apartments, in a narrow street of cottages hung with washing and painted in bright, peeling shades of blue and ochre. There’d been scant time to change and explain to them the household arrangements. Randazzo was outside, glancing constantly at his watch, waiting to hurry back to the waterfront.

“We have two weeks’ leave booked,” Peroni grumbled. “Signed for. On the line. As of tonight.”

“You’re still on duty now, aren’t you?” Randazzo snapped back.

Costa reflected on the fact that he’d heard the commissario utter more words that morning than at any time in the past nine months. Nothing the stiff, sour-faced man had said so far, though, explained why Falcone had been recalled from Verona, and why they’d been dragged from normal street duties and pulled out of uniform, all for the apparent benefit of this odd foreigner, who was now staring at Randazzo with a look that spoke of disapproval and a kind of ownership.

“That’s no way to talk if we’re to get these chaps on our side,” Massiter complained to the commissario. “Look. I’m sorry about this. If there were an alternative, we’d be taking it. Also, I owe you all something by way of compensation. It’s best we get to know one another a little. Tomorrow night. There’s a reception at what I trust will one day be my gallery. Meet and greet. Keep some potential backers sweet. You get the idea. The place is still undergoing restoration, but in Venice what isn’t? You will come, I hope, all three of you. With your dates.”

Peroni and Falcone looked at each other, said nothing, then looked at Costa. He sighed. He got the message.

“I’ve seats for La Fenice,” he replied. “But thanks anyway.”

Massiter’s eyebrows rose. “You have the tickets with you?”

Costa pulled the envelope from La Fenice out of his jacket pocket. They were the most expensive tickets he’d ever bought.

“Hmmm.” Massiter frowned at the pair of biglietti, topped by the house’s phoenix crest. “I can’t say I know that part of the house. But I suspect you’d need binoculars. That is if there isn’t a pillar in the way. I’ve a company box. One of the best there is. Eight people. Bring along some friends. Any time you like.”

Peroni coughed hard into his fist and gave Costa a terrified glance.

“Just let me know the dates.”

“I’m not sure . . .” Costa objected.

“This week’s sold out entirely, you know,” Massiter continued, scarcely listening. “I’ve a contact who can get you twice what you paid for these. Here . . .”

He reached into the pocket of his slacks, took out a fold of money set inside a silver clip, withdrew a couple of two-hundred-euro notes, reached over and let them fall in Costa’s lap, then took the tickets for himself.

“I don’t mind running the risk. If they fetch more, I’ll pass it on.”

Costa said nothing, waiting for one of the two men next to him to intervene.

“Good,” Massiter went on. “Tomorrow it is. Seven p.m. Nothing fancy. Just some decent food and drink. A little music. It’ll be pleasant to have some real human beings there instead of the usual hangers-on. And—”

Leo Falcone leaned forward and stared into Massiter’s face. The Englishman looked affronted. He wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted.

“Why are we here?” Falcone demanded. “Why are we in some fancy private boat, going God knows where? And who the hell are you anyway?”

Randazzo glowered at the three men opposite him. “Falcone . . .” the commissario warned. “You’re not in Rome now. I want some respect here.”

“They’re reasonable questions,” the Englishman objected. “I’d be surprised if he didn’t want to know. Disappointed, frankly. We don’t want idiots for this job, now, do we?”

Peroni issued a low grunt of disapproval, then demanded, “So what do you want?”

Massiter leaned back on the old brown leather, let his arm wander over to the tiny fridge built into the cabinet at the end of the seats, and withdrew a small bottle of Pellegrino, misty with ice.

“Help yourself,” he beckoned.

“We’re waiting,” Falcone insisted.

The Englishman took a long gulp, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his silk shirt. They rounded the corner of the island, past the giant boatyards and docks, the football stadium and the odd collection of workers’ houses that no one, not even the police, paid much attention to. Murano now rose on the low, bright horizon, a spiky forest of chimneys and cranes rising up from the grey blue of the lagoon, beyond the cemetery island of San Michele, with its pale brick exterior wall, like that of a private castle, topped by a green fringe of cedar points.

“What we want,” Hugo Massiter said, “is to stop this poor old city sinking any further into its own shit. If we can.”

He leaned back, closed his eyes, then tossed the empty water bottle out of the open window, into the grey, foaming wake of the speeding vessel.

“And that, gentlemen, very much depends on you.”