John opened the drawer of his desk and retrieved a clipped article from the Boston Globe. The small headline read “Priceless Art Destroyed in Allied Dresden Bombing.”
Patrick Reardon was only fourteen, but even he could appreciate the genius that sat before him.
“How’d you pull the heist, Uncle John?”
John stood and walked to the well-stocked bar. He retrieved two glasses and poured a finger of Irish Whiskey in each. Then he handed one to Patrick, took one for himself, and returned to his desk. He swallowed his drink. The boy mirrored his action, making a valiant effort to conceal his coughs. John leaned forward, his fingers interlocked and resting on the desk, and in a stage whisper he said, “The art was already stolen and on one of my cargo ships returning from dropping off supplies.” He winked. “The Allies bombing that convoy was pure Irish luck, plain and simple.”
His Irish brogue was more prominent now. “After it happened, I made some inquiries. The bombardier’s name was O’Malley.”
The teenager nodded along, rapt.
“There are no suspects, no evidence, no investigation because there is no crime. I stole a painting that’s going to be worth a million dollars one day, and nobody’s the wiser.”
John finished his drink and gently set the glass on the desk. “So ask yourself this, Patrick Reardon, are you gonna be the—what did you call them—chumps in the painting breaking rocks all your life, or are you gonna be the guy who steals the painting of the chumps breaking rocks all their lives?”
Patrick didn’t respond, but John could see the determination in his eyes. When he glanced over the boy’s head, he spotted his wife, Bridget, standing in the doorway with an exasperated smile.
“Patrick, say hello to your Auntie Bridget and be off.”
Bridget Reardon kissed her nephew. “Greta is just taking some cookies out of the oven. If you hurry, you can snatch a couple and continue your life of crime.”
The boy shouted his thanks and hurried toward the kitchen.
John Reardon turned his attention to his wife. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Bridget sidled over to the desk and perched on her husband’s lap. “I’ll be thirty-five next year. Will you still love me then?”
“Forever and always my one true.”
“Sweet talker. I was going to drive Eoghan over to the new house this afternoon. He’s getting excited about playing football at Exeter when he’s old enough, so I thought I’d show him the yard.”
“Eight acres ought to be enough for a field.” John’s comment was muffled as he nibbled on his wife’s neck.
“Quit distracting me. I need to change and you have a meeting shortly,” Bridget scolded but tilted her head to ease his access.
“What a twenty-year-old kid in Uganda needs with two hundred AK-47s, I’ll never know. He claims he’s enlisted in the British Colonial Army, but something’s not right.”
“Well, why don’t you tell this Mr. …” Bridget looked at the file on her husband’s desk. “Idiamin to take his business elsewhere?”
“Mr. Amin. Idi is his first name.”
“Don’t change the subject,” she said.
“He’s paying upfront. I don’t have to like my customers as long as their money’s good.”
“Speaking of money…”
“Uh oh.”
“What would you think about installing a swimming pool in the yard?”
“Like the municipal pool?”
“Yes. Only smaller. We’d be the only house in the neighborhood to have one.”
“Well then, by all means.” He punctuated his remark with an eye roll and a pat on her fanny to roust her from his lap.
“I love you, you know.” Bridget pulled her husband to his feet and ran her fingers over his jawline.
“Is it because I’d give you anything you asked for?”
She pushed up to her tiptoes and kissed him. “That certainly doesn’t hurt.”