Azulejo

Oi, mate. Hope the business is going well. I'm not sure if this communication line is secure, so let's do it our old way.

I arrived in Porto just a few hours ago. You know I never travel only for pleasure—

I have a specific job in mind and—as you're local—I believe you could help me, and I'm sure you gonna like it—

/

I almost ran out of my funds—and I hate feeling broke. So I got this idea. Actually, it blissfully visited my head in a bathroom while I was taking a shower and contemplating the tiles on the wall (not that it's original or something, but then, it doesn't matter as long as it's moneymaking).

Hope you don't have any plans for tonight, because I'd like you to give me a private tour.

Say—at midnight sharp.

Don't forget to take the usual tools—

I've already found a buyer—all we need is to fetch—or rather scrape off—the goods and deliver them to a drop spot; I count on your help, so see you there, as we have just agreed!

The next morning, Jorge Colaço's azulejo tilework was no longer decorating the walls of the São Bento train station.