Laurence took a sip of his drink and sat back in his chair. He felt very good about this; it was much more rewarding to do something for the people he loved than just to spend the money on himself.

—

THAT NIGHT at dinner with his very happy parents, his mother turned to Laurence. “You know,” she said, “we’d been thinking about doing over the Wilton Crescent house. A friend of mine, Susan Blackburn, is one of London’s top designers, and I was going to speak to her about it. Now, though, I’m going to have her redo it for you, Laurence, and that will be our gift. You’ve made us so happy.”

Laurence had to fight back the tears.

16

BUTCH AND CURLY had been busy; they had downloaded dozens of paintings from other websites to their own and had made purchases possible only with a password, which nobody else possessed. Finally, they sat down, and Butch watched while Curly inserted a check into the check writer and printed out one for $75,000. Curly signed it, forging Laurence Hayward’s signature, then Butch put everything in an envelope and walked down the street to a new bank branch that had just opened and approached the manager’s office.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Harold Bremmer, and I’d like to open an account.” He handed over the fake driver’s license that Curly had had made.

The man invited him in and took his application. “Do you have your paperwork and a corporate resolution?”

“Right here.” Butch handed him the documents and the check. “And the proceeds from our first sale as our opening deposit,” he said.

“What are you selling?”

“Art. We’ve started with things from my own collection, but we’re buying other things to sell.”

“An expensive picture,” he said.

“Mr. Hayward is a wealthy collector,” Butch said, “and we expect him to make other purchases, perhaps even larger ones.”

“I wish you luck.”

“Thank you. How long will it take the check to clear? We have bills to pay.”

“I’ll put a rush on it,” the manager said. “The funds should be available tomorrow afternoon.”

Butch shook his hand and left with a checkbook tucked under his arm and arrived back at his studio apartment. “We’re in business,” he said. “You know, there’s a better apartment available on the top floor. I think we should take it.”

“Good idea,” Curly said. “It’s getting a little tight around here.”

“Or you can keep this one, and I’ll move upstairs. We can pay the rent from our new bank account. And we’ll make another deposit tomorrow, this one for a hundred and twenty-five grand.”

“An even better idea,” Curly said. “Who needs a cell mate?”

—