The Perfect Fake

by Barbara Parker

“None.” Rose laid the map on the table. “We can’t use this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because...it looks so real.”

  “It’s supposed to. That’s the fun of it,” Tom said.

  “Tell me how much fun it’s going to be when somebody buys a framed one and starts complaining they were ripped off. I can’t afford that risk.”

  “Oh, I see. People will think you conspired with your brother, the convicted felon, the ex-con. Are you sure you want me at your booth at the map fair?”

  Her face colored. “Stop it, Tom. I wasn’t thinking of you.”

  “Of course not.” Hands knitted on top of his head, Tom crossed to the back door and stared out at the enclosed backyard, the shade trees and cracked concrete where Rose parked her old minivan. He stared at his battered motorcycle chained to the porch railing. He saw the next six years stretching ahead of him like a hike across the Arctic.

  “I was thinking of Eddie.” Rose came to stand beside him. When Tom looked at her, she dropped her eyes.

  “First time you’ve mentioned his name in about a century,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  Eddie Ferraro, their former neighbor two doors down: ex-marine, Chicago Cubs fan, fisherman, a pressman at Kopy King. He’d fallen hard for Rose, and her daughters liked him so much that Rose started thinking she might have a future with Eddie. He moved in and quickly learned the antique map and print business. And then, to help Rose through a lean season, sold some phony botanicals and bird prints that he himself had forged. Rose managed to buy them all back, but there were whispers about her integrity. Eddie promised he’d never do it again, but Rose threw him out. A week later the Treasury Department arrested Eddie Ferraro on an old warrant for counterfeiting. He posted bail and skipped to Italy. That had been four years ago. Eddie had sent letters to Rose, but as far as Tom knew, she’d never answered them.

  She put an arm around Tom’s waist. “It’s a good map.” She laughed. “It’s scary-good. We’ll order a thousand. But you have to put our logo on the front. And your name. People should know who the artist is.” She gave him a squeeze. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Chapter 3

  Before going to the door, Royce Herron glanced through the living room window to see who had rung the bell. A minivan was parked under the

  jacaranda tree near his gate. On the front steps stood a muscular young fellow with short blond hair, wearing a faded black T-shirt. He held a large, flat package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Ah, marvelous!” Herron opened the door and held the screen. “Tom, come in.”

  “Hello, Judge Herron. I have your map.”

  “Carry it out to the back porch for me, will you? I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with it.”

  In clear, crisp weather like this, Herron liked to spend the afternoons on his screened porch. A week ago he had set a piece of plywood on two sawhorses, a place to work on his exhibit for the Miami International Map Fair. The makeshift table was now covered with large rectangles of ivory-colored paper and parchment mounted on acid-free cardboard and encased in Mylar. Herron had hired a girl to help out. She watched their visitor unwrap the package.

  “Hi, Tom.”

  “Hey, Jen. What’s up?” He held the framed map so Herron could see it. “I shaded the ocean a little darker near the shore. It’s subtle, but it adds some depth.”

  Herron adjusted his bifocals on his nose. The Counties of Florida, 1825, previously black-and-white, had been transformed by a delicate, four-color pastel wash, and the ocean had turned blue. “Oh my, yes. It’s perfect. A beautiful job.” He picked up the frame and turned it to get the reflection of the backyard off the glass. “Perfect.”

  Tom pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. “This is an invoice for the balance due. If it’s no trouble, could you bring a check by the shop tomorrow? Rose needs to cover some expenses for the map fair.”

  “All right. Be happy to.”

  “I’m glad you like the map,” Tom said. “See you next weekend.” He smiled and tossed off a wave. “Excuse me, but I have to get to the post office before five.”

  “Tell your lovely sister I said hello.”

  “I’ll see him out,” Jenny said as she went inside. The curve of her hips showed between the low waist of her pants and a tight yellow top. An orchid tattoo decorated the smooth caramel skin of her shoulder.

  She took her time, and when she came back, Herron said, “Are you aware of his history?” When she looked at him blankly, he said, “His artistic talents aside, young Mr. Fairchild has quite a rap sheet. He’s on probation for burglary. I was a good friend of his grandfather, William Fairchild, who endowed the Caribbean map collection at the museum. Tom’s sister is a terrific gal, but you should be careful with Tom.”

  “He’s all right,” Jenny said. Her remarkable cinnamon eyes slanted up, like a kitten’s. “I’m going to work at their booth at the map fair on Saturday.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m good with maps. You said so. It would be fun.”

  “Yes, you might learn something. You listen to Rose. She knows her stuff.” Herron set the framed map on one of the rattan sofas, out of the way. Shadows reached across the lawn; the sun would be gone soon. “Jenny, may I trouble you to turn on the light?”

  She stepped just inside the Florida room. The light in the ceiling fan came on, and the blades rotated slowly beneath the open beams of the porch roof. Bamboo wind chimes swung and clinked. Jenny Gray had been born in Brixton, a rough area of London, to a white nurse’s aide and a drummer in a reggae band who had died in a way that Jenny didn’t want to talk about. Her beauty had been her escape. Herron could guess how, but it didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that her upper-class British accent sometimes slipped, revealing her origins. It pleased him to think he had inspired her.

  He had hired Jenny Gray three months ago. She shopped for groceries, fixed his drinks, tidied the kitchen, and helped him catalogue the maps. When there was nothing to do, he paid her for being available. It was like having fresh flowers in the house. Inevitably his friends had noticed, a young woman like that, coming and going at all hours, running errands for the bald, fat old fool. So what? He had no public image to uphold anymore. He had retired from the bench, his wife was gone, and his son and daughter-in-law rarely visited.

  Clapping his hands together, he said, “All right, then. Let’s get back to work.” He pulled a map off the stack he’d brought from his study. “Take a look at this one.”

  “It’s quite old, isn’t it?” A zigzag of curly, blondstreaked hair fell across her cheek.

  “Nearly as old as I am,” he said. “Published in 1597. Cornelius Wytfliet. He was Flemish. Notice anything unusual about it?”

  “Florida is square on the bottom.”

  “Come around and take a closer look.”

  She came around. The black-and-white map showed the southeastern portion of what would later become the United States. The entire area had been labeled FLO-RI- DA. The syllables fell between rivers snaking southward into the gulf. The peninsula had the shape of a serrated brick, and Cuba was a fat oval.

  Through the Mylar, she touched the row of triangles that indicated the hills of the Appalachian chain. “Florida used to come up to here?”

  “According to the mapmaker.”

  “You’ll show this one, I should think.”

  “Indeed. Put it on the ‘yes’ stack.” The cat leaped onto the table, a lithe curve of orange. Herron pulled him back from the maps and draped him over his forearm. “Bring that stool over here, would you?” When Jenny placed the bar stool alongside, Herron eased a hip onto it. He let go of the cat. “Get down. And stay off the table.” He brushed fur from his paunch, pulled more maps from the stack, and stopped at a sudden flash of blue.

  “Judge Herron? I need to ask you a favor,” Jenny said.

  He picked up the map, a trapezoidal shape wide at the bot
tom, sloping toward the top, as if the piece had been cut from a globe. Deep-blue ocean, creamy land, delicate traceries of red, bright as blood. The text was in Latin. The slanting orange borders contained the medieval equivalent of longitude and latitude numbers.

  “What favor is that, Jenny?”

  “Could you lend me some money? I’m sorry to ask you, but my landlord said if I don’t pay the rent by tomorrow, he’d evict me.”

  “Well. Sounds serious.”

  “You know I’ll work it off. I did last time.”

  Last time, she hadn’t needed to ask. He had heard her car wheezing and offered a loan to get it fixed. Now she assumed he was an easy touch. Well, he was, and she knew it. It was his own fault. Herron turned the map toward her. “These islands should be familiar. Albion Insula Britannica.”

  “You’re not putting Britain in the exhibit, are you?”

  “No, but it’s an interesting map, don’t you think?”

  She tucked a curl into the clip at the nape of her neck. “The N’s are backward.”

  “A quirk of the times. Can you guess what century?”

  “Sixteenth.”

  “Late fifteenth. Fourteen eighty-two. Copper plate or woodblock?”

  “Woodblock.”

  “Very good. This is a Ptolemaic map. The Ulm edition. Printed in the city of Ulm, in what is now Germany. The cartography was based on the writings of Ptolemy, a Greek mathematician and astronomer residing in Egypt.”

  Her face lit up. “Ptolemy! Like in the movie. He was Alexander the Great’s general, and he founded the library at Alexandria.”

  Herron looked at her several seconds, then said, “That’s a different Ptolemy. I am speaking of Claudius Ptolemaeus, who lived two centuries later.”

  She shrugged. “Is it worth a lot, that map?”

  “Not so much. I think I paid a few hundred dollars.” Which had been forty years ago. Herron was starting to feel like a skinflint. “How much do you need, Jenny?”

  She made a playful grimace. “A thousand. Eeeek.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Well, I had to pay my car insurance...and the phone bill was outrageous this month, you know. My mum...I told you, she’s been sick.”

  Herron studied the ornate lettering of the cartouche. The island of Malta, 1680, in the Mare Mediterraneum. To the north, Sicilia Pars, part of Sicily, and to the south, Barbaria—Africa. The engraver had created ships under full sail, a sea battle, clouds of smoke, one ship sinking, a rowboat of sailors frantically pulling away.

  “What about your roommate? Carla, is that her name? Where’s her share of the rent?”

  A shadow passed over Jenny’s face. “Carla’s gone.”

  “Gone? What, into thin air?”

  “Yes.” It took Jenny some time to explain. “She went out last Saturday night, and I haven’t seen her since then. I don’t know where she is.”

  “People don’t just vanish. Who was she with?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”

  “But surely you know her friends.” She shook her head. Herron found this highly unlikely, but he said, “Have you called the police?”

  “No. Maybe she just went back to Los Angeles. Carla was sort of irresponsible that way.” Jenny gave a pointed sigh. “Anyway, she stuck me with the rent. If I don’t pay it, I’ll be out in the street.”

  “Highly unlikely, a young lady as clever as you.”

  A flicker of irritation showed before she gazed past him into the yard, her eyes picking up the green of the foliage. “Are you suggesting I should get the money from Stuart? He’d probably give me a lot more than a thousand.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t even think it.”

  “Well, he would.”

  “What he would do, Jenny, is to make a couple of phone calls to Immigration, and you’d be on your way back to Britain. Stay away from Mr. Barlowe. He’s a fake.”

  “A rich one,” she replied testily.

  “But a fake nonetheless. I’ll tell you a story about him. I sold him an atlas last year, a marvelous vellumbound edition of Tommaso Porcacchi’s L’Isole più famose del Mondo, 1572, and do you know what he did with it? He cut out the pages and gave the pieces as business gifts. And he calls himself a collector. I was horrified.”

  Jenny Gray crossed her arms and continued to stare past the screen, where the late afternoon sun glittered on the canal. A flock of parrots in a palm tree screeched and took off in a whir of green wings.

  “Of course I’ll lend you the money,” he said.

  She turned and smiled at him, the witch. “Thank you, Judge Herron.”

  He had to go upstairs to his bedroom for the cash, which he kept in a strongbox in his closet under some extra blankets. Perhaps she knew this. He had noticed small things out of place, the fringe on the rug twisted, the hint of perfume in the air. Closing the box, hiding the key in a drawer, he chided himself for distrusting her. Jenny had paid him back last time, hadn’t she? Herron had first noticed Jenny pouring champagne at a museum fund-raiser at Stuart Barlowe’s house. She had agreed to help Herron with his maps at twenty dollars an hour, cash.

  When he came back onto the porch she was studying a Mercator map of North Africa. He was missing a couple of small maps. He hadn’t asked if she had taken them. He didn’t want to know.

  He gave her the money, which vanished into a pocket of her jeans. “I want you to come at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. We have to finish the maps and take them to the museum this week without fail. Can you roust yourself out of bed that early?”

  “I’ll bring Cuban bread if you make some café con leche,” she said.

  “Sí, señorita.” He snapped his fingers tango-style.

  She kissed him lightly, impetuously, on his lips, and his heart sank. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Run along.” He heard her quick footsteps receding. The front door closed. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  In the kitchen he opened a cabinet over the sink for his bottle of pain pills. “Oh, Royce, what a supreme idiot you are.” He glanced down at the cat, who looked back at him. “I suppose you agree, don’t you?”

  By 8:30 PM Herron had set aside a dozen maps for his exhibit, “The History of Cartography in Florida.” Bracing himself on the plywood table, he bent slowly to retrieve a paper plate from the floor. The cat had eaten the remains of his ham sandwich, and now lay belly-up on the couch. “You’re getting chubby, aren’t you, old man? Ha. I know what you’re thinking: Boss, you’re a fine one to talk.”

  The telephone rang. Herron picked up the handset, said hello. When he recognized the voice he cursed himself for not having checked caller ID.

  “Royce, it’s me.” Meaning Martha Framm. Martha owned a marina on the river but spent more of her time volunteering for the Neighborhood Action Committee. She was sixty-seven, bleached blond, darkly tanned, and wiry as a feral dog. They’d gone out to dinner or the opera since his wife died, but Martha’s conversations inevitably turned toward venal politicians, the real estate developers who paid them off, corrupt lobbyists, and kiss-ass Cuban radio. Even while making enemies at the Chamber of Commerce, her group had shot down five condo projects, a Home Depot, and three gas stations.

  “Martha,” he said cheerily. “How are you?” “I left a message. Didn’t you get it?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ve been up to my elbows preparing

  for the map fair this weekend. Everything going well for you?” “Peachy, except for the fact that Moreno just announced that he’s reconsidering his stand on The Metropolis.”

  There was a pause, into which Herron murmured, “Is that so?” He played with a loose button on his cardigan sweater. Martha Framm’s current target was a condominium-and-retail development to be built on the west bank of the Miami River. City commissioner Paul Moreno had been against it—until now.

  “Something happened. They got to him. He’s been bribed or threatened.”

  “Oh, don’t listen to rumors, Mart
ha.”

  “It’s the truth. If they turn one more vote, we’re screwed. We’re having a rally on Friday before the vote at city hall, and I want you to speak.”

  On their last date, after too many glasses of wine, Herron had agreed to support Martha’s campaign against The Metropolis, and the next day he’d found his name splashed across her group’s Web site. This had gone against his vow to stay out of local politics. After forty years as a lawyer and judge, he’d had enough. The idea of massive, glass-and-steel towers looming over the river made him as angry as anyone, but he didn’t want to be lumped in with the antidevelopment fanatics at the NAC.

  “Friday? No, I’m afraid not. I’ll be tied up with the map fair.”

  “We need you, Royce. I told everyone you’d be there.”

  “Martha, it was a mistake, my becoming involved with a partisan organization. I’m on the circuit court mediation board, and I have to stay neutral.”

  “Oh, really. Have you accepted even one case? I’m holding you to your promise. You gave me your word you’d help defeat this monstrosity.”

  “I can’t be there. I’m sorry—”

  “What’s going on? Stuart Barlowe? Has he threatened to take back his contribution to the goddamned museum?”

  “I won’t discuss this any further, Ms. Framm.”

  “Ms. Framm? Oh, for Chrissake, Royce. Wake up. It’s Stuart Barlowe’s money behind that damned project. He would drain the Everglades if he thought he could make a buck. Your family and mine go way back in this city. Don’t you care what’s happening to it? Where is your integrity? Where are your balls?”

  He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead and closed his eyes. “Martha, please.”

  “Forgive me, Royce. This is driving me insane.”

  He took a long breath to calm his nerves. “I can’t be at the rally, but trust me, I have already done my part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Royce, tell me.”

  “Oh, just a wee bit of persuasion. A way to bring Stuart Barlowe around to our point of view. That’s all I’m going to say about it. You have to swear not to repeat this to a soul. Martha?”