"Huh?"
"There's more, boyo. He's the one that handled the deal with the Bead Mumbler." Moe was talking about the Cardinal.
"No shit." Did I say that out loud? I turned back to LaVache. "Much appreciated, JP. By the way, how long are you going to be in town?"
"A few days, perhaps a week."
I reached into my sports coat and extracted two tickets. "Jean Pierre, maybe you can take in a Yankee's game while you're here." Box seats, third base line near home plate.
"Merci bien." He offered his hand, we shook. "Perhaps our paths will cross again."
I had to laugh. "Perhaps under more pleasant circumstances."
LaVache turned and began to walk away. He paused, looked around and said, "England."
"Beg your pardon?"
"The name that you want, it's Terrance England."
April 1997 Buckinghamshire
No man knows what tomorrow may bring…
Two Scotland Yard Inspectors arrested Simon Jones when he stepped off the plane twenty five years ago. He had just stolen a hundred million dollar work of art; killed one man and was complicit in the murder of a second. Instead, they got him on the Russian Mafia money laundering scheme. This, of all things, is the one for which he goes down.
I hear that your mother never gave you a first name. They call you Picker. Well, Picker, I'm making this video for you…
Simon Jones is finishing up a twenty five year sentence. Originally he was jailed at the high security Wandsworth Prison in South London which held murderers, robbers and other violent criminals. Due to consideration for Simon's particular skill set, he was quickly transferred to a Category D facility that housed white collar criminals.
I look forward to meeting up with you, circumstances permitting. However, there are some items that I wish to clear up in the event that such a reunion fails to materialize…
Spring Hill Prison in Buckinghamshire is a minimum security facility, set up in a manor house surrounded by immaculately manicured lawns.
I don't know how much you've heard. I'll fill you in best I can. Whatever gaps there are can be covered by one or two people who will make themselves known to you at the appropriate time…
Simon Jones spent the last quarter of a century making money for his jailers. This was accomplished by utilizing the laundering and investment skills acquired as a younger man. In turn, Simon was permitted certain privileges.
Twenty seven years ago I was involved in a project which brought me to the states. It was at this time that I met your mother. We fell in love although I was married and had a son, Connor…
This last week of incarceration, prior to his release, Simon received a telegram:
‘Engelond's progeny vows retribution. Extreme caution advised. JP’
The project which I mentioned came to an unpleasant end in Sweden. My plans were to return to London; confide my plans to my wife; and return to America to spend my life with Emily, your mother, and to raise you…
A guard interrupted Simon's recording. "Jones, you have a meeting in the conference room with your solicitor. Five minutes."
Well, the best laid plans and all that. I stepped onto the tarmac at Heathrow and was met by two lovely gentlemen from Scotland Yard. A trial followed; found guilty and sentenced to twenty five years. Some old business with the Russians. Anyway, that's how I arrived at my present living situation.
Simon stopped the video for the time being and made his way to the conference room. Harold P. Smythe, solicitor, sat at the end of a long table; briefcase opened before him.
"All arrangements are taken care of, Simon." Smythe slid a yellow tablet across the table. "This is a list of everything that you'll need to know initially. We've set up a fully furnished flat, the address is right there. Your suits are ready and have been delivered. One will be here for you to change. A ledger with accounts of your funds is waiting at the flat along with bank cards, identification and your passport. I believe that we've thought of everything. Of course, if you can think of anything else, let me know. Be happy to handle it."
"Thanks, Harold. You've been a good friend. I'm in the process of making a video. Please make sure that it makes its way to my American son, that is, in the event of my demise. You already have my will. Coordinate with Connor."
"Don't be silly, old boy. Everything will be fine. Ah yes. I nearly forgot. I've arranged to have the Morgan delivered here on the day of your release. The Warden will pass you the keys."
They made their goodbyes and Simon returned to finish the recording.
I made arrangements for both of you to be provided for during my absence. My Uncle Moe was on hand to look after you. It pained me greatly to hear of your mother's passing when you were only six. Still, I thought, Uncle Moe could be counted on to raise you…
A little more than a year later news reached that he too passed on. Although I'm afforded certain liberties, communicating and coordinating with the outside was painfully slow…
By the time anything could be accomplished it turned out that you were already in the foster system. Undoubtedly sped up by the fact that your Mother had no living relatives…
Eventually, my people tracked you down. Over the years I've managed to keep informed on your progress. The going seemed a little rough for a while. Nonetheless, you have turned out to be a fine young man. I'm sure that your Mum would be proud. I am…
I look forward to spending time with you. In the event that is not possible, you will be contacted. Mutual family will fill in the gaps…
Well, then, that's all for now. I hope we talk soon.
That last week passed. The guard brought the Saville Row hand tailored suit to Simon's room. He changed and went to the Warden's office.
"Glad to see you go, Simon." The Warden handed Simon a large manila envelope. It contained the discharge papers and a bundle of cash left by the solicitor. "I wish you the best of luck. Honest, I truly mean that."
"Thanks Warden."
The Warden reached into his pocket and handed Simon the keys to his car.
Simon walked out the front door of Spring Hill Prison. There waiting in the drive was his Morgan.
Simon opened the car door.
Sat down.
Inserted the key.
Started the ignition.
The car exploded.
Fini
"I have 90 million dollars, do I hear 100 million…"
"Darling, who was that man?" Kelly returned just as LaVache was leaving.
"Jean Pierre."
Until this point, the record for a work of art sold at auction was a little more than $250 million. It was for Paul Cezanne's 'The Card Players'. And, this was just last year. For 'Mother and Child', ostensibly by Johannes Vermeer, the hammer fell at $263 million dollars. As we say in the antiques business, not a bad day's pay.
We got into the car and headed across town to Penn Station.
"Couple of questions Mister I-Just-Pulled-Off-One-Of-The-Biggest-Scams-In-History." Kelly smirked. She was clearly amused, a reaction that would have been out of character six months ago.
"Sure, if you'll answer one of my mine first," I said as I wiggled my eyebrows and tapped my cigar.
"Shoot."
"Well, to put it bluntly, aren't you upset to be involved in one of the biggest scams in history?"
"To be honest, I should have been. As a matter of fact, until recently it would have been a major problem. It would have torn us apart. But, since that kidnapping fiasco, you coming to my rescue, Uncle Moe doing whatever it was that he did, well, let's say that the whole thing taken in its entirety changed my world view."
"Good enough. Your turn."