I guess I've always fancied myself to be an "international man of mystery," a little bit like James Bond, my hero. In fact, I look a little like the new James Bond: slender build, short close-cropped blonde hair, a serious-looking face. Like Mr. B, I'm very fond of martinis and expensive tailored suits. Actually, I have only one suit, but it's a dark blue wool worsted that cost me $800, tailored. I wear it with my $500 Ferragamo shoes.
Also, thanks to the ease of firearm purchase in America, particularly in Maryland, I have a .38 cal. Beretta automatic, the same kind as Mr. B. I had the suit tailored to allow room for the Beretta in a comfortable shoulder holster. I'm "British" of course—at least as British as anyone born and raised in New Jersey can be. I've never been out of the states, but I've worked on my British accent for many years, and it's very good.
Because of my expensive suit, you probably would think that I'm well-paid at whatever it is that I do. I like to imply to girls at pickup bars that I'm a hired assassin for the CIA. But in reality, my "cover job" is working as a gasket maker at a small plant in Camden, New Jersey. I don't know if you've ever been to New Jersey, but it's the hellhole of the earth. It looks like a bombed-out city after World War Two. I make $10 an hour making gaskets, or $400 a week. I know this doesn't sound like a lot of money, but since I live by myself in a free apartment over my uncle's garage in return for taking care of his yard and other things, I have no other expenses other than myself, so I can afford to indulge.
And my indulgences mainly are: fantasy, deception, and sex. I am able to engage in all three of them about once a month, and here's how I do it:
I like the idea of high-priced real estate, particularly out in the Hamptons of Long Island, a place that I never visit otherwise. I like houses that run into the millions, which you might think would be a little pricey for someone making only $400 a week, but the house is not the point.
The first thing I do at the beginning of that month is to pick up a copy of Forbes, the money magazine. I look through its pages to get the name of some wealthy Brit who may be planning to invest in the U.S., and then I get to work.
This month, I had decided on Malcolm Mowbray, the young CEO of Mowbray Industries, which manufactures airplane electronics and who the magazine said was considering locating a plant in the U.S. Cheaper labor, he said, and fewer union problems.
Next, on my three-day-a-month unpaid leave, I took the Trailways from southern New Jersey to New York City. I picked up a copy of the Long Island monthly magazine at the bus station and sat down to peruse it. The back of the magazine was filled with real estate ads for extremely pricey houses, many of them out in the Hamptons. I was not interested in the pictures of the houses as much as I was interested in pictures of the real estate agents on their pages.
Here was one. Linda Jameson, a very pretty blonde who looked about 30, of Island Realtors. It appeared she was handling a nice little house priced at only 2.5 million. I called the real estate company and asked for her.
Using my best English accent, I told her who I was, Malcolm Mowbray of Mowbray Industries, that I had just flown in from London on the Concorde, was staying with friends, and that I was planning to locate a plant in northern New Jersey but preferred to live in the Hamptons. I had seen the house listed in Long Island and thought that it just might do. I asked if she might be able to show it to me that afternoon, since I had to take the Concorde back to London the next day. I told her I could get a limo or taxi and meet her at her office.
As we know from history, whenever greed is involved, all caution is thrown to the winds. I knew that she would of course check my name out on the internet, which is the reason why I had given her a legitimate name, but it was very unlikely that she would go to all the trouble of trying to call Mowbray Industries in England, and apparently she did not.
Unable to schedule a limo on such short notice, I took a taxi out and met with Ms. Jameson at her office. Naturally, I was carrying my briefcase with me. Ms. Jameson was as her picture indicated: blonde, pretty, and about 30.
BUT—and this is a big but—sitting at her desk was a junior version of her, a girl of 18, blonde, exceptionally pretty, beautiful figure, and dressed in some kind of a private school girl's uniform: white shirt with a blue striped tie, blue blazer with some kind of a stupid crest on the breast pocket, gray pleated skirt, blue knee socks and black low-heel shoes.
"This is my daughter Jennifer," Ms. Jameson said, "She's just back from Hasbrouck for a spring break and wanted to see what I do."
"How do you do, Jennifer," I said, extending my hand. "You're a very pretty young lady."
"Thank you," she said shyly. Hasbrouck, I gathered, was some kind of a fancy girl's school.
"I'm going to take Mr. Mowbray out to see the Tasselhof house. You should see it, Jennifer. It's absolutely beautiful." She turned to me. "Would you mind very much, Mr. Mowbray, if Jennifer came along with us? She wouldn't be any trouble."
My God, she was playing right into my hands; I should have paid her for this. "No, of course not," I replied. "I would be happy if she came too." You bet I would be happy. In fact, my plans were changing very rapidly, with little Jennifer perhaps as the star of my show.
"I'm a little concerned," I said later on the way out in Ms. Jameson's car, "That this property, price-wise, seems to be on the lower end of the scale?"
"It's part of a divorce case," she said, "And both parties want to sell as soon as possible. They still have all of their furniture there."
"I see."
