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In the year 1965, the city of London truly was ‘Swinging’. Just about everywhere you looked, people were doing something they probably shouldn’t have been doing. But this was accepted. It was exciting to do something you probably shouldn’t have been doing. To hell with morals! Who needed them? The English certainly didn’t. There were affairs, murders, love triangles—the whole damn country had turned into one hell of a West Side Story. For a bloke like Richard Wellington, being intelligent, smooth, cockney, and drunk in Swingin’ London worked like a charm. Getting paid a rather fair amount a day to do ‘odd jobs’ for criminals was a dream come true for an old man raised on blood, sweat, and tears; all derived, of course, from his mother. Richard Wellington wasn’t used to working for the things he had. No, he had the nasty habit of simply taking the things he wanted. Ever the scholar, he had a rather intelligent yet somewhat biased philosophy: ‘Steal from the rich, Cause they can live without a thousand pounds off their bloody millions.’ Perhaps he was right. But keep in mind, this was the year 1965. Wellington used his looks, charm and wit to knit his way into the lives of London’s wealthiest—a con man through and through—finding a way to cleverly extort money from them, all the while fooling them with some outlandish plea: such as the old ‘The Wife and Children are out cold with pneumonia’ or the clever declare of false love to a unknowing social-climbing heiress, who was, quite coincidentally, from New York. Yet there was one bloke Wellington never could seem to fool. That particular man was a billionaire. That man’s name was Francois LaPlant. Francois LaPlant owned the Bennett Museum in downtown London, where he housed one of his dearest possessions: A big, fat fifty-carat diamond just screaming Wellington’s name. Wellington had walked past that diamond every day of every week of every month of every year for the last thirty years. It was only around this time that old fox began plotting to steal it—one of the biggest heists in history. It was also around this time that he took notice of one particular woman named Dotty Kline. Dotty Kline certainly was an Irish beauty, two years younger than Wellington. He had observed her from afar; and, just as he had suspected, she was not ‘just’ a pretty face. In fact, Dotty Kline was one of the cleverest criminals in all of London. You know what she did? She stole art without the actual piece ever leaving its home. Dotty painted and sculpted exact replicas of the valuables, switching them so she had the real deal and the owner had the phony. That’s what attracted Wellington to her—this was pratically his female counterpart. But let’s jump ahead into present times. Wellington and Dotty still had not met at this time, but this is where the story begins. The Bennett Museum towered above him, its gray stone looking even colder in the early winter air. The small frown on his upturned face gave the illusion that he was upset about something, though he wasn’t—he had never been happier in his life. Richard Wellington was simply giving the building a stern look. The small frown turned into a small smile. “It’s been thirty years, old friend.” he chuckled. After one last short look upwards, Wellington turned and began walking down the sidewalk, only one thing on his busy mind. With a grunt, he sat down on a bench, crossing one leg over the other and stretching his right arm on the back of the wood. With a sigh, he lifted his fedora hat and ran a hand through his gray hair. Sitting on a bench across the way, a young woman was blaring an obnoxious pop song, reading a colorful magazine. Wellington shook his head, scratching his rough chin. He pushed up the sleeve of his coat and looked at his wristwatch over his small spectacles. He looked back up at the night sky, pulling his sleeve down. A Chilly wind blew through the square, forcing him to turn up the collar on his coat. A small female cough told him she had arrived. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” “Have you?” “Yes. But it’s not you who’s asking the questions, here, ducky. What’s it all about?” “Money, I say. But most others say love.” “Do you? And what do you say to ‘you’re a smart-ass’?” “I say people who must use vulgar language to get their point across obviously don’t know any other way but the American way.” he turned his head to look at her. “Richard Wellington.”
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I could hear your voice in your writing. And that is the objective of all good writing to have a loud and clear voice.