{"id":2671,"date":"2018-09-17T20:08:10","date_gmt":"2018-09-18T00:08:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/?page_id=2671"},"modified":"2020-07-09T12:21:10","modified_gmt":"2020-07-09T16:21:10","slug":"swindler-son-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/my-books\/swindler-son-main-page\/swindler-son-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"Swindler & Son – The Start"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"Swindler<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

-So how does it start?<\/strong>
It starts with the sound of my own name spoken aloud.
Call me Nicholas, I\u2019m fine. Nick or Nicky, even better.
But \u2018Nicholas Marsh\u2019 enunciated, first and last, all the way through\u2014when I hear it that way, I know I\u2019ve done something I\u2019m about to pay for.
Hearing it in French, every syllable twisted and slurred and leaking from the earpiece of a Parisian counter-terrorism officer in a Kevlar vest, his back to me and his binoculars trained on my kitchen window\u2014that\u2019s rock-bottom.
That\u2019s how it starts, in the snowy garden of the Hopital Saint-Louis<\/em> in the Tenth Arrondissement<\/em>, just past sundown on Christmas day, at what I fervently hoped was the end of one of the worst days of my life.
Well, actually, no\u2026
Actually, it started about fifteen minutes earlier, on the other side of the canal, where I was mugged by some twenty-five year old junkie in a purple-tinted mohawk and a leather jacket. And several nice tats on his neck that distracted my attention when I should have been focusing on his oncoming fist. He took my wallet and phone and left me aching and dizzy, which is why I wandered groggy several blocks out of my way and approached home through the garden.
I love that garden but none of the official exits land anywhere near my apartment. A few years ago, I found a back door, through the Musee des Moulages<\/em> on the hospital grounds, that let me out near a construction gate right across the street from my building.
I\u2019m just opening that back door when I hear my name and see GIGN, French Special Forces, two officers, huddled like Martians in flak suits, gas masks and sniper rifles, peeking through the construction gate at the wide corner, the entrance to my building and, eight floors above, at the dead coleus drooping from my night table.
Frozen in place, I scan the rooftops to find a squad of dark gray uniforms\u2014and, in case I harbor any last doubts, hear my name one more time from the headset hanging from the blonde officer\u2019s right ear. I back instinctively into the doorway, sweating and making twenty-five different plans at the same time.
The bus! They won\u2019t be checking the bus on the Boulevard de la Villette<\/em>, that\u2019s an answer. Having any sort of answer calms the quiver in my legs, brings them back into something like working order.
This is a mistake\u2014it\u2019s got to be. If I\u2019d done something to deserve counter-terrorism, I\u2019d remember it, wouldn\u2019t I? More importantly, why in hell didn\u2019t somebody tip me off? Who do I know at GIGN?
Out through the door and the museum, retracing my steps, back out the far end of the compound, past the Chapelle<\/em> to the Rue de la Grange aux Belles<\/em>. Up toward the roundabout at a regular clip, walking briskly like a Parisian.
Am I thinking of escape? Hell no, I\u2019m just getting pissed. Why hasn\u2019t somebody warned me? Why haven\u2019t they given me a chance to buy my way out of this?
Oh sure, GIGN makes it look serious but that just raises the price. I know somebody in every department of government and what they cost. Serious things have been undone before.
By the time the bus makes three stops, I know who to talk to\u2014Beltoise, the second man at the Surete. He was at our Christmas party just last night.
I own him! At least, I should. If I had a middle-class clientele, if I dealt pot or owned a brothel, I could expect a phone call 24 hours in advance of a raid. It\u2019s common courtesy!
He\u2019ll be at D\u2019Azur, of course, charging his dinner to us as usual.
When I arrive, he\u2019s tucked into a dim corner. He rises before I can reach him.
\u201cWhy is GIGN all around my apartment? You don\u2019t warn me?\u201d
His eyes bulge like marbles. \u201cWhere\u2019s your phone?\u201d
\u201cPhone? Stolen. I got mugged.\u201d
He looks relieved. \u201cThat\u2019s why they\u2019re not here yet,\u201d he mutters and pulls me into the private room in back.
\u201cNicky, our past history\u2014and the fact that I like you\u2014is why I\u2019ll give you a minute\u2019s grace before I call you in.\u201d He\u2019s serious! His face goes cold\u2014not like he doesn\u2019t know me, like he\u2019s never seen me before. \u201cNormal corruption is one thing\u2014but this?\u201d
Normal corruption? Normal corruption is my specialty! He\u2019s reducing ten thousand years of civilized give-and-take to a catchphrase. Not to mention, it\u2019s fed him quite nicely, thank you, over the years.
I look at his face, at the disappointment and condescension there, and realize what a farce it all is. You treat them like princes but the first time you actually need them to put out\u2026they might as well be in insurance.
Faced with this ingratitude, something inside me just gives up.
\u201cOkay,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI surrender.\u201d
\u201cWhat?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ll confess, right now. It\u2019s the jet ramps, isn\u2019t it?\u201d
He looks confused.
\u201cWe have this client, a dictator\u2026you know the old joke about, you\u2019re not really a country unless you have your own stamps, your own airline and your own beer? Well, he\u2019s got commemorative stamps, a brewery, a Mercedes stretch limo and a portrait of himself as Julius Caesar. But he gets embarrassed when his guests have to descend a staircase off the plane.
\u201cThere\u2019s a staircase on Air Force One\u2019 I tell him and he says, \u2018They could have a ramp if they wanted one.\u2019 So when Kumbatta collapsed, we flew a cargo plane in and liberated a couple of jetramps. The guy was so happy, he painted two Cessna\u2019s and proclaimed them the national airline. I don\u2019t think we hurt anybody.\u201d
Beltoise settles into the nearest chair, not saying a word.
\u201cThat\u2019s not it?\u201d
Silence.
\u201cOkay, Napoleon\u2019s penis\u2014that was a good deed, I swear.\u201d
\u201cExcusez moi<\/em>?\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s your Minister of Defence\u2019s fault! Not the present Minister, the old one. He had this\u2026thing about Napoleon\u2019s penis, that it should be back in France where it belongs.\u201d
\u201cIt is in France! Napoleon\u2019s body is at Les Invalides<\/em>!\u201d
\u201cThe body, sure, but his penis was removed during the autopsy and it\u2019s floated around ever since from collector to collector. It\u2019s now owned by a urologist, naturally, in Philadelphia.\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t be funny.\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s true. The BBC measured it a few years ago and found it a bit small. Naturally, that outraged the Minister, who insisted the English don\u2019t know how to measure. The urologist\u2019s price was just outrageous so we found a\u2026more generously-sized one around the same age, for a price the Minister could afford. It made him happy.\u201d
\u201cYou found him another penis?\u201d
\u201cAnother old penis! You think that was easy? How many three-hundred-year-old penises you think are floating around?\u201d
Beltoise stares at me with\u2014I can\u2019t tell if it\u2019s respect or concern. The odd thing is, to me, this is actually beginning to feel pretty righteous. Confession really is good for the soul. \u201cOkay, not the answer. Give me a chance. The eighteen identical one-of-a-kind Moroccan emeralds\u2014\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
\u201cThe Van Gogh with the wrong ear missing?\u201d
Beltoise rolls his eyes. \u201cWe\u2019ve never met,\u201d he warns, \u201cexcept for a few state dinners with hundreds of other people I\u2019ve never met either\u2014but my advice is, you find a quick way out of France now. And don\u2019t bother replacing your phone\u2014they\u2019ll find you as soon as you do. You understand?\u201d
This is terrifying\u2014Beltoise is a glorified flatfoot with a fancy office. I\u2019m begging to be arrested and he\u2019s not biting. It\u2019s unnatural.
\u201cThrow me a bone here,\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t understand what\u2019s happened.\u201d
He grimaces. \u201cYou know damn well it\u2019s the bomb.\u201d
\u201cThe BOMB?\u201d
Of course, I know all about the bomb. I\u2019d arrived back in Paris the day before, just in time for the funerals. Twelve dead, 37 injured, a miracle it wasn\u2019t more. A mountain of flowers in plastic sleeves heaped on the rubble, candles arrayed like soldiers in front of the dress shop left somehow intact on the corner.
And a march from the Place De la Republique<\/em> to the Place de la Nacion<\/em>, thousands, orderly and dogged, middle-class families and university students, Le President and his rivals, butchers, bakers, artists and computer technicians shuffling through neighborhood streets between broad public squares, solemn and chattering, sombre but fashionable\u2014Paris, formal but somehow intimate. Great buildings and beautiful women dressed in black. Paris is a grand dame, maybe a bit past her prime, but she still knows how to put on a funeral.
\u2018It\u2019s an escalation,\u2019 they say, the voices that multiply in crowds. Just a few years ago, \u2018they\u2019 were content to shoot up a restaurant or concert hall. Now, somehow, they bring in a bomb the size of a safe to bring down half a block of five-story apartment buildings.
The size of the explosion makes people nervous. Nobody builds a bomb that size to bring down the Rue Breguet<\/em>. We all sense a grander plan that went awry and the fact that no one claimed responsibility only seems to heighten the tension. You don\u2019t even have the consolation of knowing who to be afraid of.
Beltoise, however, has made up his mind.
\u201cIt\u2019s your shipping certificate!\u201d he yells, no longer caring who hears. \u201cYour company\u2019s letterhead! Your signature on the bloody thing! You think I will cover for that, you\u2019re insane!\u201d
I stand frozen for an endless moment, until words I never thought I\u2019d hear myself say come tumbling out of my mouth.
\u201cI didn\u2019t do<\/em> that! I\u2019m innocent<\/em>!\u201d
And then, I run.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Order Swindler & Son on Amazon by clicking here<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

-So how does it start?It starts with the sound of my own name spoken aloud. Call me Nicholas, I\u2019m fine. Nick or Nicky, even better.But \u2018Nicholas Marsh\u2019 enunciated, first and last, all the way through\u2014when I hear it that way, …<\/span> Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":2673,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2671","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2671","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2671"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2671\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2882,"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2671\/revisions\/2882"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2673"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tedkrever.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2671"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}