Free The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) by Shane Norwood

small-time gonif . A real schmendrick . Da . The yutz thinks I actually like him. As if I could ever like a dreck shvartze . Da . I bring him tomorrow. You won’t believe it when you see him. Of course. The schmegeggy will die. Da , slow and painful. So what? What’s one less putz in the world? Da . Now you owe me a big chesid . See you tomorrow. Mazel tov .”
    Elmo slipped the phone back into his pocket, slipped his shoes off, lay back, and sighed contentedly as he sipped his champagne and the smooth road hummed underneath the wheels of the Caddie as it glided down the freeway.
     
    ***
     
    As Benjamin—pronounced in the Spanish manner as Ben-ha- min —Peabody stared out over the windswept but still-sparkling shores of Lake Geneva, he couldn’t think of a single person in the whole wide world that he would rather be than Benjamin Peabody. And why would he? Benjamin had it all. He had the looks, the style, the charm, and all the toys. Every trinket that a man could possibly desire, and then some. And if he couldn’t in all honesty claim to be actually famous himself, he was at least a celebrity in his own field, and counted a whole host of the rich and renowned among his clients. Benjamin owned galleries. Five in fact: London, Paris, New York, Tokyo, and Moscow. Well, almost five. True, the one in Moscow was not properly opened yet, but it still counted. He specialized in rarities. Jewelry or art, stamps or coins, it didn’t matter. If it was sought after and valuable, then Benjamin Peabody knew where it was and what it was worth.
    He ordered another Tanqueray, and looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Why, he was almost a work of art himself. Fashionably unshaven, ridiculously expensive clothing casually tossed on with exactly the right amount of contempt for the price tag. Tanned features regular and handsome, but not so much as to fall into the trap of prettiness. Curly hair meticulously trimmed into rebellion. When the waiter brought his drink, he raised it and toasted his reflection, which stared back at him with loving affection.
    He turned and looked across the foyer at the armed police standing at attention outside the door of the conference room, where the egg was on public display, along with all the other treasures, until all business was concluded, as per agreement with the auctioneer. He smiled to himself, knowing the egg was perfectly safe. It was perfectly safe because it wasn’t in the conference room at all. Did they seriously believe that Benjamin Peabody was going to entrust an objet d’art worth millions to a bunch of uniformed buffoons? No sir. He had pulled the old switcherooney as soon as the lights went out at the end of day one. The egg on the podium was a dummy. A decoy, just in case. The real egg was safe in his room, in plain view, in the last place anybody would expect it to be: confected into a chocolate Easter egg. Well, you couldn’t be too careful these days, what with all the heists taking place.
    He turned back to the mirror and resumed his mutual admiration session with his reflection. He had always thought that, for all his good looks, he had something of the brigand about him, a certain piratical air. That had certainly been the case during the auction the previous day, which he had handled as deftly as a pickpocket, intimidating the other bidders with his panache, blindsiding them with savior-faire, not to mention bunging the auctioneer two center court tickets for Wimbledon, and lifting the egg for a lot less than it was worth. His partner on whose behalf he had acquired the egg was going to be so pleased.
    Benjamin was distracted by a divine scent that wafted over him. He closed his eyes.
    “ Rive Gauche, if my nose does not betray me,” he said.
    He turned to see a radiant woman standing before him, her hair cascading over her shoulders like the eruption of a silken volcano.
    “ Your nose is to be trusted, sir. You are correct.”
    “ Ye gods,” Benjamin