The hotel was founded by Cesar Ritz in 1898 along with renowned chef Auguste Escoffier. The Ritz Paris overlooks one of the central squares in Paris. Historically it is known to be the first to provide a bathroom in the suite; a telephone and in each room, electricity. Known the world over for luxury, the client list includes royalty, politicians, movie stars, singers and especially writers.

Simon removed the check from his suit coat and passed it to Moses. "Mazel tov!"

Simon ordered two more drinks.

"Uncle Moe, I've been thinking."

"Always a dangerous pastime my boy."

"Bollocks, I've a few bloody dollars now. Haven't had to do any petty ante grifts for ages now. I'll tell you what's crossed my mind. Simply this, laws are written to protect the rich and powerful. Not for blokes like us. It's the wealthy and politicians running the biggest scams and no one can touch them. Well, I'm a scammer and there's no reason why I can't do the same."

"Ye got a point, boyo. The higher they go the crookeder they get."

"Uncle Moe, I've got a question. You see that check there. On the one hand, it's a tidy sum. On the other, it is a fraction of what that job was worth. Not that there is anything that can be done about it, but why do you suppose that is?"

Moses Aronson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "They don't respect you, son. It be your last name."

"Come again?"

"They don't respect you, they don't like you, you might even say that they hate you. But they'll use you. Jewish, it's because you're Jewish."

"Fucking hell! Are you serious?"

"Damn straight, son."

Simon walked over to the bar and picked up a copy of The Times. One headline read, "Tom Jones Live At The London Palladium."

"Jones, that's as good as any gentile name. From now on that's who I’ll be, Simon Jones.