"I hope it isn't as dangerous as those you had him do previously."
"No, he just has to take The Woman in the Blue Veils to Commissario Caltabieni. A four, five-hour drive, that's all."
Ron stretched his arms above his head. He looked around. The profile of the mountains loomed sharply against the clear sky of September. On the further hills, the shepherds were taking their cattle back to the valley after a summer of rich, high-mountain pasture.
"Mother said you wanted to speak to me," a young man said, standing in front of Ron and fidgeting with a pair of goggles.
"Yes. I have a simple job for you this time. Take that picture to Caltabieni." Ron pointed toward the inside of the cottage. "It's the painting on the sofa in the living room."
"What am I now, a courier?" Greg stood straight and haughty, and glowered at his stepfather.
"Do what you're told. It's an expensive piece of art, an original. Its value is over half a million dollars. Be careful. Only the four corners are protected by corrugated cardboard."
Greg entered the cottage and returned with the painting. "Half a million dollars for a few blue lines on paper?" he asked, totally astonished.
"Yes. Precious lines, drawn by a famous artist. I won't bother to tell you who the artist is, you have no knowledge of art. Anyway-take your mother's car. I mean the BMW. Don't touch the Lamborghini! Don't speed, don't drink on the road, and don't play with explosives. We've discovered you have no talent for them."
"Fuck you!" Greg said, kicking the chair closest to him. "You're always so hard on me. Look at yourself! You hired an expert, that Charles Aldrin, and with what results? Tell me. Tell Mother with what results."
"Things didn't go right with him," Ron said, his head down, his voice soft.
"Didn't go right, huh? Is that what you say?" Greg turned toward his mother. "Do you know what this fucking genius has done with our last half million dollars?"
"Shut up, Greg. I don't want your mother involved. You know that."
"I don't give a damn what you want or don't want. Mother, do you know how he spent our last half million?"
Jo Anne looked at Ron, a question in her eyes, then glanced from her husband to her son.
"He spent it-all of it-to incinerate a cat! A poor, little tabby cat!" Greg threw the picture in the air and caught it, as if to defy his stepfather's authority. "Charles Aldrin was a CIA man. I'm only a novice!" He ran off, making the wooden deck squeak with each step.