“O cazzo,” Pipino muttered. Oh fuck.

The tiger watched as Pipino slowly approached the cage and retrieved a nice piece of meat from his knapsack. He worked the tranquilizer into the meat, pushed it through the fence and waited. The tiger sniffed the unexpected late night snack and then devoured it.

Pipino waited — five, ten, fifteen minutes. The animal paced in the cage. He hoped the dose was strong enough. Finally, after thirty minutes, the tiger stumbled, lay down, and closed its eyes.

Pipino steadied himself and slipped into the shed. The darkness inside was punctuated by the earthy smell of fur and hay. He could see the bright outline of the large cat door. Above, in the rafters, he spotted a rectangular object: the Madonna.

Then he heard something that sounded like breathing. As his vision adjusted, he saw two large feline eyes staring back at him. Pipino felt like he was about to have a heart attack.

It was another fucking tiger.

The animal was lying down. Its tail flicked with interest.

“Ma che bel gattone,” Pipino whispered. What a beautiful cat you are.

He slowly pulled out another piece of meat, pushed in the tranquilizer and tossed it to the cat. The tiger promptly ate the offering. After that, the cat watched him closely, probably hoping for more. Pipino waited, frozen in place, until the animal closed its eyes and fell asleep.

Pipino moved quickly, worried that the first tiger might wake up. He pulled the Madonna down, gingerly replaced it with the replica, and stepped out of the shed. Then, for the second time, Pipino put the Madonna under his arm and made off into the night.

In the prison visiting room, Pipino sat back as he finished his story.

“But there weren’t any tigers,” he said, smiling. “I never stole the painting back.”

The whole thing sounded implausible, even more so than the beach vacation in the Seychelles. Maybe it was just another piece of misdirection, part of the ongoing illusion.

Yet, as with the Seychelles, Pipino’s tiger tale weaves in and out of reality. Some locals in Campolongo report that Maniero did own two tigers, named Romeo and Juliet. He was also known to stash stolen goods on his cousin’s property by the Brenta. Today, the property is in fact a tiger refuge, although the owner — as it turns out, also a magician — says his animals didn’t arrive until 1999.

More significantly, on November 7, 1991, the police reported that the Madonna was mysteriously returned. Palmosi says that Pipino got it back, although the former police detective doesn’t know how. Pipino wasn’t hit with special surveillance and his brother was never harassed.

Years later, a crooked cop on Maniero’s payroll testified that the mob boss returned the painting to him. The idea: Burnish the credentials of his inside man. It’s possible Maniero did this, not knowing he may have returned a forgery. Either way, Maniero claims to have achieved his primary goal. He says that he won the release of his jailed cousin with his other stolen treasure: Saint Anthony’s Chin.

“You see?” Pipino said at the end of prison visiting hours. “Everybody got what they wanted.”

In the end, nobody knows exactly what happened, besides the magician onstage. Everybody saw their own version of events. The truth vanished beneath the trick.

On Thursday November 7, 1991, Pipino strolled into police headquarters in Venice. There was a press conference scheduled: The cops were going to announce the recovery of the Madonna. Pipino got there early and was led into the chief’s office. The two men sat down and looked at each other.

“I’m still going to catch you,” Palmosi said. “With my own hands.”