Manny Manicotti called me out of the blue. Not one of his minions; the Man himself. "We gotta talk." Then he hung up. That was typical of Manny. He was always suspicious that someone was listening to his phone calls.

He was probably right.

It has been nearly a year since I had helped him with the Bosconi bracelet affair. Since then, I have seen nothing in the news so I assumed that he had gotten one of the fake bracelets back into the owner's safe without being detected.

I wondered briefly what he wanted but decided not to waste too much time worrying about it Manny would get word to me when he was ready. Never, in the furthest stretch of my imagination, would I have guessed what he wanted.

It happened sooner than I expected.

I was getting a haircut when Sandy leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "When we are done here, there is someone wants to see ya in the back room."

It was Manny. And he had been waiting on me! This was unheard of. "Come closer," he growled. In a low voice, he told me that he needed to liquidate some of his collection. He needed the cash. "Never mind why."

I warned him that now was not a good time to unload hot jewelry. The market was soft. He was unfazed, "You don't think I know that? Lissen, I gotta plan."

"I want to sell the Bosconi bracelet back to the insurance company."

With those twelve words, Manny just sealed my fate. I was a dead man.

"But they don't even know it was stolen," I stammered.

"That's your job. Convince 'em"

I was desperate, "This is crazy. Why do you want to do this?"

"I told ya, I need the cash and the insurance company will pay out thirty percent. I won't get that much anywhere else." Then he added, "You'll get ten percent of what I get."

My mind was racing. If I didn't do this, Manny would just get someone else. The fact that he was holding a fake Bosconi would come out and I would be a dead man. If I did do it, I would somehow have to convince the insurance company that a) the bracelet was stolen, b) that the bracelet we were selling them was the real one and not another fake, and c) that they should pay top dollar to get it back. Then I had to collect the money without getting caught and fade away into the sunset.

That last part, the sunset thing, was not so far-fetched. I had been planning my retirement for some time now. I briefly thought about just leaving the barbershop and never looking back. But there was something...

I had fooled everyone for over two dozen years with my fakes. It wasn't just the Bosconi. But I had never put one of my creations up against a world-class appraiser. Could I do it? Could I fool them all?

There it was, my damn ego again. "I'll do it," I told him.