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had nothing left to learn from the master. Bill discovered that his mother was unwilling to allow him to return to the bosom of the family, so he forged the signature of the American Consul in Dublin and departed for the brave new world. By the age of thirty, he had etched his first dollar plate. The work was so good that, during the trial that followed its discovery, the FBI acknowledged that the counterfeit was a masterpiece which would never have been detected without the help of an informer. O'Reilly was sentenced to six years and the crime desk of the San Francisco Chronicle dubbed him 'Dollar Bill'. When Dollar Bill was released from jail, he moved on to tens, twenties and later fifties, and his sentences increased in direct proportion. In between sentences he managed three wives and three divorces. Something else his mother wouldn't have approved of. His third wife did her best to keep him on the straight and narrow, and Bill responded by producing documents only when he couldn't get any other work - the odd passport, the occasional driver's licence or social security claim - nothing really criminal, he assured the judge. The judge didn't agree and sent him back down for another five years. When Dollar Bill was released this time, nobody would touch him, so he had to resort to doing tattoos at fairgrounds and, in desperation, pavement paintings which, when it didn't rain, just about kept him in Guinness. Bill lifted the empty glass and stared once again at the barman, who returned a look of stony indifference. He failed to notice the smartly-dressed young man who took a seat on the other side of him. 'What can I get you to drink, Mr O'Reilly?' said a voice he didn't recognise. Bill looked round suspiciously. 'I'm retired,' he declared, fearing that it was another of those young plain-clothes detectives from the San Francisco Police Department who hadn't made his quota of arrests for the month. 'Then you won't mind having a drink with an old con, will you?' said the younger man, revealing a slight Bronx accent. Bill hesitated, but the thirst won. 'A pint of draught Guinness,' he said hopefully. The young man raised his hand and this time the barman responded immediately. 'So what do you want?' asked Bill, once he'd taken a swig and was sure the barman was out of earshot. 'Your skill.' 'But I'm retired. I already told you.' 'And I heard you the first time. But what I require isn't criminal.' 'So what are you hoping I'll knock up for you? A copy of the Mona Lisa, or is it to be the Magna Carta?' 'Nearer home than that,' said the young man. 'Buy me another,' said Bill, staring at the empty glass that stood on the counter in front of him, 'and I'll listen to your proposition. But I warn you, I'm still retired.' After the barman had filled Bill's glass a second time, the young man introduced himself as Angelo Santini, and began to explain to Dollar Bill exactly what he had in mind. Angelo was grateful that at four in the afternoon there was no one else around to overhear them. 'But there are already thousands of those in circula- tion,' said Dollar Bill when Angelo had finished. 'You could buy a good reproduction from any decent tourist shop.' 'Maybe, but not a perfect copy,' insisted the young man. Dollar Bill put down his drink and thought about the statement. 'Who wants one?' 'It's for a client who's a collector of rare manuscripts,' Angelo said. 'And he'll pay a good price.' Not a bad lie, as lies go, thought Bill. He took another sip of Guinness. 'But it would take me weeks,' he said, almost under his breath. 'In any case, I'd have to move to Washington.' 'We've already found a suitable place for you in Georgetown, and I'm sure we can lay our hands on all the materials you'd need.' Dollar Bill considered this claim for a moment, before taking another gulp and declaring, 'Forget it - it sounds too much like hard work. As I explained, it would take me weeks and, worse, I'd have to stop drinking,' he added, placing his