‘He’s coming back,’ Bam says. ‘Contrary to your advice.’ He taps Turton on the top of the head with the phone.

‘I can get you the real one, Bam. If you let him go, I’ll get you the real one,’ Turton pleads.

‘Don’t shit me, Turton. You can’t get me the real one, ’cause you haven’t got it. I know who has it. I seen it.’

‘No. We’ve still got the real one. We sold a forgery. You must have seen the forgery.’

Bam taps the phone receiver on Turton’s temple. ‘Turts – enough. So far you’re not involved. Don’t get involved,’ he warns. ‘As it stands, for us it’s just a smallish financial setback and a kick in the arse of my pride. And when Arse Sell gets here, and pays us back, I’ll be able to stand up at our AGM and announce that a smallish financial setback suffered in the art market has been reversed. After he pays us back I’ll kill him. You wouldn’t believe what a salve that is to your pride, to kill the man who kicked its arse. So there’s that problem solved. And you and me? You and me are good, and you’re back artworking fancy creatures onto our hogs like you always did.’

‘I told you, I stole the real one so I could sell a fake. And I sold the fake. And I’ve still got the real one. I’ll swap you the real Weeping Woman for Marcel.’ Turton is on his knees now, hands pressed together, praying to Bam.

‘You sold a fake one.’ Bam looks down on him awhile. Looks at Larry Skunk and Wal and raises his eyebrows to ask what they think. ‘We got three now. Three paintings. This is murky waters,’ Wal warns him.

‘No,’ says Bam. ‘It’s pretty clear.’ He takes hold of one of Turton’s sideboards between his thumb and forefinger. ‘If we cut this deal, I get the Weeping Woman or you and Arse Sell are wrapped in chook-wire and overboarded in the rip. That’s pretty clear to you, isn’t it?’

‘It’s clear.’

Bam lets go of Turton’s sideboard and lays a hand on his head and smiles. ‘So you’ve still got it?’

‘I have.’

Bam shakes his head and laughs. ‘So the one she’s got’s a fake, too. She’s laughing at mine like I’m the ignorant guy in town. And hers is a hundred per cent as forgeried as mine. By the same guy did mine. Little Turton. Pumping ’em out like a battery hen.’ He unbuttons his vest, lets his belly fall. ‘Man, that is beautiful.’ His face is bright, pleasure pulsing in his eyes as he imagines Leni Richtofen’s bewilderment when he unrolls the real Weeping Woman in front of her, points out the deficiencies in hers and tells her he hopes she didn’t pay too much for it.

‘People think they know culture,’ he says. ‘“This is good.” “This is bad.” “This one here’s a masterpiece and this one here stinks.”’ He shakes his head. ‘They don’t know, man.’

‘They don’t know,’ Turton agrees.

‘They don’t,’ says Wal.

‘Nuns,’ Larry Skunk nods. ‘Or speedboats. Who’s to say?’