Pablo Fandango

By James Kelly

On Christmas Eve 1981, the brutal slaying of a 'Ndrangheta enforcer in a Hamilton parking lot sends shockwaves through a tough working-class community and separates two childhood friends. Marty settles in Calgary for a time—his family slowly disintegrating under the strain—while what's left of Matt's family tries to come to grips with their loss and make a new start in nearby St. Catharines.
Five years later, Matt and Marty cross paths again in Toronto and pick up their friendship where they left off . Now tough, brash, and quick on their feet, the two of them are soon living off their wits and up to their necks in small-time scams, the occasional well-planned heist, and anything that can make them a quick buck. But when Marty comes up with a scam that will land them more money than either of them have ever seen, they know it will mean upping their game. It will also mean enlisting the help of heavy Hamilton mafia connections they'd previously avoided.
Set in the fall of 1990—and drawing loose inspiration from real life events—Pablo Fandango is the first in a series of Marty Ronan novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781773709376

James Kelly

After growing up on the wrong side of the tracks as a kid, James Kelly ended up surviving a remarkable twenty-five year career as a high-level undercover operative, working with clandestine intelligence agencies from around the world. From Terrorists Organizations, Outlaw MC's, to Asian Triads, to the Cartels of Colombia and Mexico, James Kelly has seen things most people can scarcely imagine. Retired from the life, James Kelly now splits his time between the UK and Russia.

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Disclaimer

The Pablo Fandango is a work of fiction, the premise of which was loosely inspired by real events. Many of the characters and places contained herein are entirely fictional. Others are highly fictionalized versions and amalgams deployed solely in service of a story that was encouraged to flourish and follow its own path. In other words: Very little of this is real. Just enjoy it.

Prologue

Three young guys in their early twenties walking along King Street West at just after six in the morning. It’s not yet light. It’s a Saturday in late September, and there’s a light fog that close to the lake. It has been warm for a week, almost summery. They pass beneath hazy streetlights burning holes in the muted blue of the pre-dawn light. Even at a glance you can tell that they’ve been out all night. All three of them are smoking and laughing and in need of showers. The skinny one on the right, the one with the small Nike backpack slung over one shoulder, he’s the youngest of the three, and you wouldn’t guess by looking at him but that backpack contains over nine grand in cash. The guy in the middle, the one with the accent who will not shut up and looks like a MuchMusic VJ with his bleached hair, tight jeans and Sex Pistols T-shirt, well, he has a condo at the Summit just past Bathurst, which is where the three of them are headed. The rough-looking one on the left has a gun—a Smith tucked away in a belt holster in the back of his jeans—but he’s all right. He’s just a little twitchy because of the money.

This was 1990, a lifetime ago no matter how you slice it. I was just a kid, though I didn’t think so at the time. Twenty and utterly bulletproof—an impression not yet tested. I’d been on my own a couple years already and was angry about … well, just about everything, to tell you the truth. Eager to make something of myself as a big fuck-you to my father, not that I would have admitted that at the time. I was putting myself through art school only because I had some talent, but it didn’t mean a goddamned thing to me, so I knew it had a shelf life that was running out. The nine grand on my shoulder felt nice, but I was still pretty buzzed. The buzz would wear off once I slept it off, and I’d wake up just as twitchy as I always did back then. But at that moment, shooting the shit with Howie and Matt on the streets of Toronto, I felt right with the world.

These days, of course, Howie is back in the UK somewhere. At least that’s where he was headed when I last set eyes on him. I’m sure he’s pulling down six figures at his father’s firm, probably more. Hell, it’s probably his firm by now. Howie and I lost touch.

As for Matt, he came to a bad end. Not right away mind you—at that point he and I still had a few years of shit-kicking, as he like to put it, ahead of us—but he didn’t hit thirty. Not like me, barreling my way toward fifty. Christ on a crutch.

I think about Matt a lot these days and wonder what he’d have made of some of the shit I’ve seen. He’d probably be more amused than shocked. Hard to say.

One

We’d just closed up an illegal booze can off Spadina, a semi-regular thing we’d run half a dozen times since June. Not all of the nine grand was profit, but most of it was. King West was pretty quiet save for delivery trucks, the odd taxi and occasional streetcars. I’d been living with Howie at his condo since January. Before that Matt and I had a place. If Matt hadn’t been crashing at the condo I might have gone home with Keri, our new bartender. Or invited her back to the condo. Or tried to. I mean, unless I was misreading things, Keri was a go. Note: I may very well have been misreading things. I was only twenty, and Keri was twenty-seven or thereabouts. I did not lack for confidence.

Anyway, Matt was with us this morning because the last time he’d stumbled back to his place at dawn and tried to put the moves on a sleeping Yolanda, she’d been somewhat less than enthusiastic. Matt’s girlfriend Yolanda was a dancer at the Cherry Bomb, and when she was done there, by the time she got home all she wanted was a long shower and bed—hey, she loved Matt, there was no denying that, but she loved him less when he woke her up after only a couple hours of sleep, reeking of booze and cigarettes. Besides, when Matt pulled something off he was the kind of guy who wanted to hang out with the folks he pulled it off with.

I’d known Matt since I was a kid back in Hamilton, back when my dad ran numbers for Johnny Pops out of the Limerick, and his dad, the infamous Mad Dog Babcock, worked collection and other jobs that required a willingness to instill fear and spill blood when need be. We lost touch after Mad Dog was killed—shot down in the parking lot of the Limerick on Christmas Eve 1981. My mother moved us out to Calgary, and Matt’s mother took him and his sister to St. Catharines. I would have been twelve, Matt fifteen.

Matt was back in Hamilton on his own less than a year and half later. Well, not really on his own. He was crashing with his uncle who was renting the old house on MacNab. Honestly, living with Donny Babcock was as close to being on his own as makes no difference.

When we got to the Summit complex, we stood out front in the early morning fog and finished our smokes while Howie concluded a fucked-up tale of a three-way he’d had at some chick’s parents’ summer place in Oxfordshire. If our boy Howie was to be believed—and who can say for sure that he wasn’t—he was fifteen at the time and a virgin, and the women involved were both in their early twenties.

By the end Matt was choking he was laughing so hard. His cigarette flicked into the street like a tiny meteor.

You are full of shit!

Howie had this manic grin on his face that was hard to read one way or the other.

Gospel truth, mate. Chapter and verse.

Uh-huh, I said, dropping my butt to the paving stones and crushing it out.

Ah, Marty, I understand, he said. You’re skeptical and maybe a little jealous.

I fished out my keys. It’s a good story, Howie.

Truth be told, I should be pitied.

Matt, ever a reliable set-up guy for one of Howie’s stories, obliged him as always.

Yeah, how come?

Well, it’s been all downhill ever since, hasn’t it?

Howie was Howard Ashley Harrington, son of noted British investment banker Harold Ulysses Harrington. He’d been all lined up to follow in his father’s footsteps straight out of prep school, starting with the London School of Economics, but it didn’t quite work out that way. Instead he started to work as a DJ, much to his father’s annoyance and embarrassment. As it turned out, it was a short-lived career—at least in the UK. In the spring of 1988, a drug deal outside a London club went tits up and a handful of hard men wanted to talk to him about it. A misunderstanding, according to Howie. Still he didn’t feel like chancing the explanation.

His father was more than happy to ship young Howard off to Toronto. He owned a condominium at the Summit complex, a purchase which dated back to its construction and had never been flipped. Indeed, Harrington the elder had not at that point even seen the property first hand. According to Howie, he was invited to make a fool of himself in Canada and return when he was ready to be an adult.

I first met Howie at Stilife, a new nightclub that had opened up in an old building on Richmond West. This was a few months after Howie arrived in Toronto and before Stilife got so upscale that neither of us could stomach the place. Anyway, that night I had intended to approach the DJ and see if he’d be interested in a gig at a booze can I was hoping to start up, but Howie let me know that the DJ was utter rubbish. Howie and I hit it off right away.

I bumped into him a few times over the next year and a half and had even introduced him to Matt on one occasion—Matt had no idea what to make of him. And on New Year’s Eve 1989, I got a chance to hear him DJ at a special all-ages gig at an abandoned warehouse in the garment district.

I had seen his name on a few posters the week before Christmas and decided to check it out. Matt and Yolanda were occupied at a Cherry Bomb event and would be crashing at their new place on Gerrard East. I was still up in the air as to whether I wanted to keep the shitty two-bedroom I’d had with Matt for the past couple of years. And the place was a disaster because I still hadn’t cleaned up after Matt rifled through his stuff, leaving me with a stack of dog-eared crime novels, extra sheets I would sooner burn than launder and an inordinate amount of porn on VHS. All of which is to say I was glad to get out for the night.

I got there early, paid my cover and said hello to Howie as he was setting up. It was a long night but not without its charm. There was no alcohol, and the guys on the door weren’t letting folks in with any. It was strictly canned pop and bottled water to keep folks hydrated. But there was ecstasy, a lot of it, and guests caught with anything harder were eventually shown the door. It seemed to me that there were a great number of exuberant unattached young women, but the lighting was such that you couldn’t be too sure of ages. Howie was terrific, I thought, though truth be told I didn’t know fuck-all about music and still don’t.

After the show we found ourselves at the Lakeview on Dundas, talking about our plans for the nineties. When he found out about my apartment situation he told me I should move in with him. That’s when I found out where he was living and why and how he’d come to Toronto in the first place. He seemed genuinely buzzed on the idea of a roommate.

Sure. Why not? I didn’t need much convincing.

I moved up to the Summit a week later, on my birthday. I left behind three big black garbage bags, some mismatched dishes and cutlery, a beat-up toaster oven and a big cardboard box of creatively titled magazines and video tapes. I figured that Julio the super would at least appreciate that last item—who knows, it might even make up for steam cleaning the carpets and scrubbing out the fridge.

When we got up to the condo I was hit with a wave of exhaustion so total that my legs almost gave out. Howie walked to his machine and checked his messages while Matt collapsed on the couch and grabbed up the remote, firing up the pay TV channels and punching the volume down to almost nothing.

I hung the backpack on the back of a dining room chair.

I’m bagged, I said. I’ll see you knuckleheads in the morning.

Matt squirmed, dragged the holstered Smith from the back of his belt and put it on the coffee table.

It’s morning now.

Brilliant, said Howie. I’m going to grab a shower first.

In my room, I stripped down to my boxers, cracked open the window and collapsed onto the bed without turning on the overhead light. I remember hearing the shower go on but I was asleep before the blue-grey promise of dawn gave way to what came next.

Two

It was just after one when I woke up. I would have slept longer but for my bladder and the smell of coffee. I had to hand it to Howie: He might have been a Brit, but he didn’t fuck around with tea—in fact, the best coffee I’d ever tasted came from the expensive Italian coffeemaker that dominated our kitchen counter.

I stood, stepped over the pants pooled on the floor and cranked opened the window. The sky was overcast and I breathed in a cool wind off the lake. The condo faced east toward Bathurst, and above the intervening architecture I could make out the topmost curve of the SkyDome punctuated by the CN Tower. The Blue Jays, I knew, were getting ready to start the second game of a three-game homestand against the Indians, having lost the first game the day before in the thirteenth. Stottlemyre was starting. With less than a dozen games left and the Jays up a game and a half on the Red Sox, now was not the time for losses. Not that I cared very much. I grew up paying attention to sport scores but the only sport that actually interested me was hockey, and after the season the Leafs had just put in I couldn’t wait for the puck to drop this year.

I didn’t bother getting dressed. I had to see a man about a horse.

The bathroom was a posh affair of dark wood, creamy marble tiles and chrome fittings. There was also an upright mahogany magazine rack, and as I sat there replaying my interactions with Keri from the night before and indulging in thoughts of how things might have played out, I absently grabbed for the one piece of reading material I hadn’t fully explored. It was a six-month-old New York Times that dated back to Harold Harrington’s only trip to Toronto to eyeball his exiled heir apparent on a planned stopover on his way back from a meeting in Los Angeles.

I’d read through the sports section a few weeks ago: A Rangers game that went 5–5 in overtime versus the Leafs—a game I had watched at the Dufferin Gate—and a group of investors hoping to the keep the North Stars in Minnesota. I shook out and reassembled the paper, and something caught my eye on the front page below the fold. A captioned photo.

Getty Museum Buys Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’

Van Gogh’s Irises on view at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu, Calif. The museum acquired the work for an undisclosed sum from the Australian industrialist Alan Bond, who bid a record $53.9 million for it at an auction in 1987. Page C15

The story in the arts section shared the page with movie ads for The Forbidden Dance, Bad Influence and Blue Steel. By the time I was done with it I’d sensed the beginning of what I felt was a good idea. And by the time I stepped out of the shower ten minutes later I knew I had something.

I stepped into the living room wrapped in my towel and holding the paper.

Howie was sitting on a springy wooden IKEA recliner with a coffee and the latest Now magazine, his feet up on a matching footstool, reading an article about ongoing violence in South Africa. Matt was sprawled on the couch where he’d slept, he had the VCR remote in his hand and was rewinding Howie’s copy of Taxi Driver. By the cases on the coffee table, it looked like he’d watched or intended to watch Raging Bull as well. I remembered then that I had promised to go see the latest Scorsese with him that night.

Howie raised his cup to me. Matt looked over and shook his head.

Jesus Christ, man, there’s a Hockey News, a Sports Illustrated and a couple of British skin mags in there and you come out with the New York Times. What the fuck is wrong you?

I’ve read the Hockey News and the Sports Illustrated already, I said. "And a skin mag with your morning dump? What’s wrong with you?"

Matt laughed. Hey, it’s the afternoon, we slept in!

A fair point, said Howie, not looking up from Now.

Degenerates, the both of you.

Howie shrugged. Another fair point.

I turned to the kitchen and got myself a coffee.

In the living room, Howie waited until I kicked Matt’s feet and sat on the couch.

So what was going on in the world six months ago?

It’s a story about the Getty buying a van Gogh and not saying what they paid for it. Here’s the thing: The guy who bought it first, a couple years earlier, some Australian guy, uh…

Alan Bond, yeah?

So you’ve read it.

It’s been there for six months, mate. I’m not into sports and sometimes the journalism in Knave magazine is a little light.

Matt snorted.

I haven’t noticed, I said. Anyway, Bond paid over fifty million for it at auction.

Man’s a prat according to dear old Dad.

The tape stopped rewinding so Matt hit eject and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.

"The point is fifty million, I said. I mean, van Gogh is great but fuck me, fifty million?"

And…? said Matt.

I took a sip of my coffee and smiled.

And I am wondering if there are other prats out there.

Hang on, Matt said. I gotta take a piss.

He lurched off the couch and stretched when he got to his feet. He’d slept in his clothes and smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

Did you watch both of those last night? I asked, motioning to the cassette cases.

Fuck no, I didn’t even watch one. I fell asleep before De Niro even did his thing in front of the mirror.

When the bathroom door closed we heard Matt let out a loud theatrical groan as he let loose. A moment later he started in on You talkin’ to me?

Jesus Christ, I said.

Howie shot a look at the gun on the coffee table. Something about him sleeping to Taxi Driver is a little unsettling.

I liked Howie, but he and Matt could not have been more different. Both were easygoing so it wasn’t hard for the three of us to hang out, but I was always aware that were it not for me the two of them wouldn’t be friends. It was possible that Matt felt threatened by Howie, he could certainly be jealous of the time Howie and I spent together. But I wasn’t the one who went and moved in with a girlfriend, was I. Ultimately, I think Matt was more uneasy about what Yolanda did with her free time than what I did with mine.

You coming with us tonight? I asked Howie.

Yeah, I suppose so.

Howie was a big movie buff and he’d taken a real liking to mob movies in the past couple of years.

You know where it’s playing?

Everywhere, I would think. He ruffled through Now and found the listings. Uptown 1 has it. You think he’s gonna check on that bird of his or hang here all day?

Oh, he’ll head home for a taste. You can count on that.

Hard to fault him for that.

Matt got himself a coffee and sat back down beside me.

So what’s the scam?

Who said anything about a scam? I said.

Marty, don’t jerk me around.

Fine. It’s a scam, I said. But I dunno, I think it could work.

Does it involve breaking into the Getty? asked Howie.

Matt was quick to jump on him. That’d be a job, not a scam.

My apologies.

No, look, it just dawned on me in there… I mean, it hit me again just how much money is tied up in fine art these days. It’s really heating up. And I remember one of my profs last year talking about how shifty the whole scene can be with some dealers and collectors.

Certainly the wealthy don’t always stay between the lines, said Howie. So what are you suggesting?

Forgery. The word sounded so stupid now that I’d said it that I felt flushed. What the fuck was I talking about? This was not a new idea, of course. It was a scam that had been around since man first started putting value on the work of others.

With you the forger, of course, said Howie.

Matt said, So wait, you plan on painting something and passing it off as a van Gogh or whatever? Like a painting that no one knew about? He sounded skeptical and I didn’t blame him. That didn’t work for a lot of obvious reasons.

No that’d be so far beyond me that I wouldn’t even know where to start. There’s no way it’d stand up to careful analysis and—

And how would we explain how we got it?

Exactly.

"You want to create a forgery of an existing work of art," Howie said.

Yes.

Except then there is the problem of the original.

That’s the thing—

What do you mean? said Matt.

Well if I were to create a forgery of the van Gogh in the Times story, even if it was perfect, the fact that original was still hanging in the Getty…

Right, said Matt. Duh. Sorry. He was embarrassed.

So how do you get around that? said Howie.

Simple. The forgery is of a stolen work of art.

Interesting.

But…

Matt didn’t want to sound stupid, but he had questions. I knew already that he was on board if he thought it was something we could pull off. I also knew that he was convinced that the forgery part was no problem—in that respect he had more confidence in my abilities than I did. To Matt what I was able to do was almost magical.

But the problem is still explaining how we got a hold of it, he said. I mean, if someone’s selling a stolen masterpiece, chances are he had something to do with stealing it in the first place.

That’s the thing, I said. "It’s as much about choosing the right pigeon as it is about producing a passable forgery. We don’t explain how we got it. We don’t have to. We present it as a stolen work of art to a dealer or collector willing to buy it anyway. The forgery doesn’t have to be perfect because we control access to it until the deal is done. It just has to be good enough to convince them that it’s genuine. If they figure it out after the fact they have no recourse because what they were trying to do was illegal. We just have to set it up so that they have no way of coming after us. But that’s not hard."

I could practically hear the gears whirring in Matt’s head.

You can’t control access to it too tightly, Howie said, or no one will bite. The ultra-rich might be unscrupulous but they’re not generally stupid. Most are at the very least smart enough to surround themselves with people smarter than they are. They’d want to have an expert examine it.

Right, I said. You’re right. Sure, but the thing to remember is that we aren’t going to aim for the moon here. We’re not going to try to pluck someone for fifty million. I don’t even know if that would be possible. At this point I don’t even know what piece of art we’d try to forge. But it wouldn’t be something too big. For instance, back in March there was a museum heist in Boston. I can’t remember the name of the museum but the heist netted over a dozen works of art, including a couple of Rembrandts and a Vermeer.

Before you find yourself too impressed, I only knew about this because it had been a hot topic during an art history class in my first year at Ontario College of Art. And I only attended that particular class because I was steering clear of the condo to avoid bumping into Howie’s father.

They were calling it the biggest art heist in history. The thing is, if we tried to pass off a forgery of that stolen Vermeer and we were asking fifty million for it— Well, I mean first of all the FBI would be on us in a heartbeat. Even if our pigeon didn’t decide to turn us in for the potential reward, the scrutiny and access they’d expect before parting with fifty million would be too high.

"But if we tried something without that kind of heat, said Matt. And we were asking maybe half a million…"

Exactly, I said. Especially if the half a million was a real bargain.

Howie was nodding. There are collectors out there who’d be willing to gamble at that price, he said. It would just take a little research, and I know some folks I could ask.

This was something I’d more or less been counting on and I was glad I didn’t have to ask. It meant that Howie was in.

We’d want to be sure, Matt said. We choose wrong and the guy might just decide to go to the authorities when we make the offer.

That’s a risk, but we never let our guy know how to get to us, only how to reach us after the initial offer. After that we always arrange meets on our own terms. Like a kidnapping almost. And the best part is that it makes perfect sense that we’re handling it that way because we’re passing ourselves off as individuals moving stolen art, which is a risky proposition.

I fucking love it, said Matt. And when they figure out that they’ve been scammed it’s too late and there’s nothing they can do.

Right, I said. We let their greed work for us.

It’s worth pointing out, said Howie, that if our pigeon, as you call him, is rich enough to be worth plucking and willing to do something illegal, it means that he’s rich and willing to do something illegal. Just because he can’t go to the authorities doesn’t mean he’s out of options when it comes to restitution.

Fair enough, but rich and greedy doesn’t have to mean powerful and dangerous.

There’s more overlap there than you think, but I will grant you one doesn’t automatically presuppose the other.

It’s all about picking the right pigeon, I said.

And choosing the right work of stolen art, said Howie, and of course creating a viable forgery of said work of art.

Right, the work of art. I don’t have one in mind but I do know where to start. As for the forgery, well, let’s just say I hold myself in high regard on that score.

Fuckin’ A, said Matt.

Here’s the thing: When it came to art I was gifted, whatever the hell that word means. I always had been. For that matter, I suppose I still am though it’s been years since I did anything more than a half-formed erotic doodle on a bar napkin. I just don’t generally have a lot of paper in front of me these days. I keep busy, and my hands are usually being put to other uses.

I’m told I was drawing long before I could talk, and that once I hit kindergarten early educators could scarcely believe what I was capable of. Some sort of prodigy is the phrase my mother likes to repeat—something a high school art teacher told her back while I was still in elementary school. I guess this guy was married to my Grade 2 teacher, and when she showed him a horse I’d drawn from memory on a piece of brown craft paper with one of those thick elementary school pencils he was floored and asked to speak to my parents.

My dad was busy at the Limerick but my mother met with him, or so the story goes—I don’t remember any of this, of course—and that’s when he told her that I was some kind of prodigy and that she should encourage and support me as I tried to spread my artistic wings.

The problem was I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about drawing. It didn’t drive me at all and it used to make my mother nuts. I think it amused my dad. The year of that meeting, all I wanted to talk about was hockey and getting into the Tyke division of the Hamilton Huskies with one of my classmates and how unfair it was that I was a week too young and how I didn’t want to do initiation division and so on.

As it turned out, my dad was able to talk to someone to pull some strings and I laced up the skates as the youngest Huskies Tyke on the ice. But as part of the bargain—and my mother’s fingerprints were all over this deal I’m sure—I had to promise to keep up my drawing. Fair enough.

And for the next few years I drew almost every day, at first just to keep my hockey dreams alive but later as way to gain attention from the adults around me. I mean come on, when you’re nine or ten and have a talent that can draw praise and astonishment from, for example, a mafia enforcer who carries a gun, it’s a card you’ll play from time to time. And if drawing in your spare time helped keep that game sharp, well, you’re going to draw in your spare time. After all, one of the first lessons you learn in hockey is the value of practice.

But apart from being a means to a couple of ends, my so-called gift didn’t speak to me whatsoever. I will say this though: It was also a convenient activity I could use to occupy myself when I was with my dad at the Limerick or tucked away in some restaurant backroom that had been closed down for a poker game or spending a Sunday afternoon watching horses and jockeys at Fort Erie, Greenwood, or Woodbine.

That night the three of us saw Goodfellas for the first time.

We ended up seeing the late show so that Matt could take Yolanda to Karin—a fancy restaurant one of her friends had been raving about—for an early dinner. In the lineup for the movie, dressed in black slacks, a button-down shirt and a black leather jacket, Matt admitted that they’d been slow getting a seat and had to leave without dessert.

Seriously?

Nah, it was okay, she almost never has dessert anyway. And I offered to, well, pay up front, y’know, if she wanted to stay for something. She was cool with it.

I had to hand it to Yolanda: She put up with a lot from Matt because of Howie and me. The thing was, he was dead serious about his feelings for her. There was no hiding it either.

So how was the food? I asked.

It was good. A lot of the menu was over my head, but I got a steak and Yo had some kind of salad, I think. I don’t know how the fuck to describe it. Mine was good.

I imagined Matt putting her in a taxi, maybe feeling the need to cajole her a little, promising not to make it a late night, Yolanda relaxed and unconcerned one way or the other.

Y’know, you coulda invited her along.

Absolutely, said Howie. I’d have been curious for her take on this one.

A quick shadow passed across Matt’s face because he wasn’t sure if Howie was joking or not (he wasn’t). Also, he didn’t like the way Howie acted around her and always suspected that he was flirting with her (he usually wasn’t).

Nah. Not her thing. She likes art flicks and historical movies.

I’d seen maybe a dozen or so movies with Matt over the years, a lot more if you

Reviews for Pablo Fandango

[Salvatore Ferragamo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

What a Thriller of Twists and Turns, with a great sense of seriousness and humour to say the least about this artistic experience which James Kelly takes you on. It's a roller - coaster of crime we dont see today in the criminal mileau of crime novels. This would make for a great movie! Reminded me of a Block-Buster movie starring George Clooney and Brad Pitt! I could not put this down and actually reread it again it was so great! Hard to find books like this today cant wait to read the next book of Marty Ronan.