"It's me."
"Oh, shit, Picker. Where the hell have you been? Where are you?"
"New York. Got shanghaied".
"Well, in that case, get your sorry ass back here. Now!"
"Tell me what's up?"
"What's up? I'll tell you what's up! Doo Wop is dead and Millie is missing!"
September 1973 Paris
The two men sat at the outdoor cafe.
"Le travail merveilleux, mon ami. Our friends are very pleased with the work that you have performed for them."
The Cafe de Flore pavement tables were once the favorite rendezvous of Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. It was in the mid-seventies and a handful of clouds dotted the sky.
Aronson lit his Cuban cigar, a Romeo and Juliet Churchill. "Good, I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of the Russkaya Mafiya."
"Tout a fait le contraire, they are interested in more such work in the future."
Simon Aronson had successfully laundered close to five hundred million dollars for the Russian Mafia. He was able to process the funds in record time by purchasing the controlling interest in an established bank.
The Frenchman passed an envelope across the table. Aronson peered inside. A check made out to him for ten million dollars. "Il est suffisant, je font confiance?"
A wry smile crossed Aronson's mouth. "It will have to be, won't it?"
They sat quietly for a few minutes sipping their espresso, enjoying the cigars and discreetly observing the parade of Parisian women.
"Jean Pierre, I'm no longer interested in this line of work."
"Pourquoi non, mon vieil ami?"
"A couple of reasons. Elisabeth is pregnant. I'm not interested in jail time. For that matter, I don't wish to deal with these types of people. They're never happy for long and they think that they own you. Time to move on."
"Comme vous souhaitez.” As you wish. “Congratulations on the baby. Please let me know when he is born."
"He? What makes you think that?"
"Just a feeling. Good luck, Simon. Stay in touch."
The men parted ways. Simon strolled down the Boulevard St Germain. Crossed The Seine river, turned left toward the Allee de Castiglione.
Simon was considering his options. He walked past the Place du Carrousel, situated on the site that was formerly the Tuileries Palace.
The 'bank capture' method that he had used with the Russians was highly effective. It did, however, have serious limitations in terms of scaling.
Simon passed under the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. It was a sight to behold, especially when viewing it for the first time. It was built between 1806 and 1808 to commemorate the military victories of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Simon Aronson was a talented, yet run of the mill grifter. That is, until one day when he had a realization. Men pitch pennies for pennies and men pitch pennies for a million dollars. His motto had become 'never steal anything small.'
He proceeded straight passing through the public gardens between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde.
Aronson formulated a new plan. He would specialize in shell companies and trusts. They were the perfect vehicle for hiding the true owners of money. Depending on jurisdiction, corporate vehicles were not required to disclose true ownership.
He continued down the Rue Saint-Honore arriving at 15 Place Vendome, his hotel.
The second tool in his arsenal involved real estate. Done properly, real estate could be purchased with illegal funds and then turned around to be sold. For all intents and purposes the income derived would legitimate. The best bit was, all of this was scalable. But, even better than that, it was all perfectly legal.
It was just past noon. Simon walked into the bar and asked the bartender for his mail.
The Hemingway Bar at the Ritz Paris still functions as a mail drop for writers and journalists.
In fact, if you are an aspiring writer and plan to be in Paris anytime soon, here is what you do.
Have any correspondence addressed to you in the following manner:
Your Name
Bar Hemingway
Ritz Paris
15, Place Vendome, 75001 Paris
When you arrive in The City of Light, drop in at the Hemingway Bar. See the bartender. He will retrieve your mail from the glass display that is directly behind the bar. You don't even have to be a guest of the hotel to enjoy this service.
He strolled over to a table in the corner of the bar.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No, laddie. Only been a few minutes." Moses Aronson was seated in a black leather chair nursing a single malt scotch.
The hotel was founded by Cesar Ritz in 1898 along with renowned chef Auguste Escoffier. The Ritz Paris overlooks one of the central squares in Paris. Historically it is known to be the first to provide a bathroom in the suite; a telephone and in each room, electricity. Known the world over for luxury, the client list includes royalty, politicians, movie stars, singers and especially writers.
Simon removed the check from his suit coat and passed it to Moses. "Mazel tov!"
Simon ordered two more drinks.
"Uncle Moe, I've been thinking."
"Always a dangerous pastime my boy."
"Bollocks, I've a few bloody dollars now. Haven't had to do any petty ante grifts for ages now. I'll tell you what's crossed my mind. Simply this, laws are written to protect the rich and powerful. Not for blokes like us. It's the wealthy and politicians running the biggest scams and no one can touch them. Well, I'm a scammer and there's no reason why I can't do the same."
"Ye got a point, boyo. The higher they go the crookeder they get."
"Uncle Moe, I've got a question. You see that check there. On the one hand, it's a tidy sum. On the other, it is a fraction of what that job was worth. Not that there is anything that can be done about it, but why do you suppose that is?"
Moses Aronson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They don't respect you, son. It be your last name."
"Come again?"
"They don't respect you, they don't like you, you might even say that they hate you. But they'll use you. Jewish, it's because you're Jewish."
"Fucking hell! Are you serious?"
"Damn straight, son."
Simon walked over to the bar and picked up a copy of The Times. One headline read, "Tom Jones Live At The London Palladium."
"Jones, that's as good as any gentile name. From now on that's who I’ll be, Simon Jones.
Millie Is Missing
I stepped out of 30th Street Station on the Market Street side. It was a little after eight in the evening. Parked directly in front of me at a meter was my Morgan. The old man was sitting in the front passenger seat. K was in the back.
I returned to Philly as quickly as I could after speaking with TJ.
"Doo Wop's dead?"
"Murdered. Beaten to death. Mrs. D. found him in his studio when she got home."
"Where are her boys?" What the hell was going on? Who would want to hurt that sweet old man?
TJ said, "They’re on their way. What do you want to do?"
"Can you pick me up?"
"No, busy, sorry. I can drop the car, though."
I had to think… "Park it on 30th, bring K, leave the keys in the ignition. Call Mrs. D., tell her I'm on my way. Where's Kelly?"
"Mrs. D.’s already expecting you, Kelly's out-of-state, no idea where or when she'll be back."
"Talk later, stay in touch."
The Morgan Motor Company was founded in 1910 by Harry Frederick Stanley Morgan. It is a British company. Morgan is located in Malvern, Worcestershire and today employs approximately 160 people. All of their cars are hand assembled. The waiting list for a new car runs between one and two years.
My Morgan is a Plus 8, the lightest V8 passenger car in the world. It has a BMW 4799CC engine with max power of 367 horse power. The top speed is, can you believe it, 155 miles per hour. Mine is sport yellow. Very cool.