When Bernie the Weasel decided to pull off the heist of the century, he knew only the best team would do. His recruitment was slow and meticulous. Finally in a secluded villa set well back from the Cote and the Casino they were to turn over, Bernie assembled his troops.
Cigar in hand, he called the roll. “Mad” Marco and his Balkan Bastards needed no introduction; their capacity for indiscriminate slaughter was legendary. “Boom Boom” Detroux, “Electrical” Wilson and “Wheels” Larsson shook hands. They had either worked before or knew each other by reputation. Until they came to Nobody Jones.
“What’s he do, this Nobody?” growled Mad Marko, measuring the portly, little man for a shallow grave.
“Absolutely nothing,” replied Nobody Jones, cheerfully, “I can assure you of that.”
“While we do the job, he goes on a camping tour of the Camargue,” rasped Bernie, “with his wife.”
There was a deadly quiet. Nobody Jones smiled amiably at everybody.
Bernie spelled it out, “Nobody Jones is the finest innocent bystander in the business.”
The silence continued, more puzzled than deadly now.
“If he’s spotted with us, he’s so clean it confuses every Law Agency in the world. Ain’t a Database built can work a connection. He’s insurance.”
There was a general buzz of approval. Someone opened a bottle of slivovitz; Jones went off to polish his camper. Bernie pulled out the maps and diagrams.
Two days later, while Nobody Jones was cruising through Montpelier, the gang knocked over the Casino for eighty million euros. It worked like a dream.
Jones retired to a small but beautiful cottage in Dorset to contemplate his garden. He had made substantial sums of money and, occasionally as he clipped away at his topiary, he would reflect that his career had been the perfect crime.
Cigar in hand, he called the roll. “Mad” Marco and his Balkan Bastards needed no introduction; their capacity for indiscriminate slaughter was legendary. “Boom Boom” Detroux, “Electrical” Wilson and “Wheels” Larsson shook hands. They had either worked before or knew each other by reputation. Until they came to Nobody Jones.
“What’s he do, this Nobody?” growled Mad Marko, measuring the portly, little man for a shallow grave.
“Absolutely nothing,” replied Nobody Jones, cheerfully, “I can assure you of that.”
“While we do the job, he goes on a camping tour of the Camargue,” rasped Bernie, “with his wife.”
There was a deadly quiet. Nobody Jones smiled amiably at everybody.
Bernie spelled it out, “Nobody Jones is the finest innocent bystander in the business.”
The silence continued, more puzzled than deadly now.
“If he’s spotted with us, he’s so clean it confuses every Law Agency in the world. Ain’t a Database built can work a connection. He’s insurance.”
There was a general buzz of approval. Someone opened a bottle of slivovitz; Jones went off to polish his camper. Bernie pulled out the maps and diagrams.
Two days later, while Nobody Jones was cruising through Montpelier, the gang knocked over the Casino for eighty million euros. It worked like a dream.
Jones retired to a small but beautiful cottage in Dorset to contemplate his garden. He had made substantial sums of money and, occasionally as he clipped away at his topiary, he would reflect that his career had been the perfect crime.
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3 comments:
And the name of this cottage was, of course, "Nobody Home".
Invisibility has untold benefits.
Has anybody noticed that the "weasel" looks suspiciously like Chips?
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