“Lying low in Genoa with Drool might not be as easy as you think.”

Just then the door opened.

“Holy ripened fuckcheese!” said the Jewess, dropping all pretense of her boy voice as Drool unfolded out of the door and she backed away. She had learned to properly swear since we’d been together. I was somewhat proud.

“Boy’s happy to see his father,” I explained to the guard.

“Pocket! My friend! My friend!” The enormous oaf swept me up in his arms and squeezed the breath out of me, while inflicting me with most slobbery affection.

“Stop licking, Drool. Put me down and go hug your son.”

“Huh?”

I heard the coins clink into the hands of the guard and Jessica say, “Well, we’ll be off then. Cheers!”

I took Drool’s hand and led him quickly down the wall of the fortress and around the corner.

“You might have warned me,” said Jessica.

“I told you he was large.”

“I told you he was large,” said Drool in my voice, mimicked note for note, exactly.

Jessica spun around. “What was that? What was that?”

“He does that, too,” said I. “It’s his gift, nature’s way of compensating him for being an enormous, beef-brained child. He can remember whole conversations, hours long, and recite them back, word for word, in the voice from which they sprouted, and not have a fluttering notion of what he’s been saying.”

“Sounds bloody spooky to me,” said Jessica, putting a bit more distance between herself and Drool.

“They took Jeff, Pocket,” said Drool.

“I know, lad, we’re getting him. Jess, you go to the piazza and buy Jeff from the wine merchant. I’ll take Drool and the gold back to the boat to wait.”

“The gold? You’re not taking my father’s treasure.”

“Can’t have a girl running about a strange city by herself with a bag full of gold and jewels, can we? Unless you’d rather stay with Drool while I go.”

She looked the grand buffoon up and down and handed me the heavy leather bag. “You might pull the boat out a bit if the patrol comes by. I’ll wave from the breakwater for you to come in and get me.”

“The lad are a lass, then?” said Drool.

“Jess is Jessica, Drool,” said I. “Bow proper to the lady.”

“Milady,” he said, bowing. “Not my son, then?”

“No, seeing as she’s a bloody girl and not ten years your junior, she’s not your bloody son.” I forget at times just how impenetrably dense Drool can be. But I had missed shouting at him.

“Can I have a wee peek at your knockers then?” Drool asked the girl.

“Drool!” I scolded.

“Sor-ry,” he sang. “May I have a wee peek at your knockers?”

“No, I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Oh, he’s not asking for proof, he asks that of all the girls.”