Freedy Filkins, International Jewel Thief, 8.

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Freedy's enormous neighbor sauntered up the path and went around to the side window, where Freedy soon poked his head out.  The big man handed over a wad of bills.  I watched the illicit transaction from a distance.

As soon as Freedy's head scooted back into his house, the big guy walked away.  He turned the corner and pulled out an even bigger wad of bills and guffawed.  Yes, guffawed was exactly what he did.  Shook his head and guffawed.  Ho, ho ho.

He jumped over Freedy's little white picket fence and descended to the little hovel at the bottom of the hill.  What neither of these benighted fellows knew was that their families had been inexplicably and inextricably linked in just such a way for generations.  The Filkins in their ludicrously pompous ways, and the Ganders in their parasitic ways.

Fortunately for both families, every few generations a Filkins would show up with some spunk.

I waited until Stu Gander had lit a cigarette and plopped down in the rickety frayed lawn chair outside his door, before approaching.

"How fortunate for you," I said, without preamble.  "Freedy isn't very worldly, is he?"

The man sprang to his feet, and he was a terribly beefy figure -- red face, a thatch of thinning blond hair, ham fists and -- I laughed to myself -- tiny little feet.  Wouldn't take much to tip this fellow over.

He was a half a head taller than me, and I'm not small.  About six foot four or so.  He glowered over me.

I didn't back up an inch and his bluster started to fade.

"What's it to you, old man?"

Now I'm not actually old, but I've found my long gray flowing beard and hair to be an asset.   People tend to underestimate me.  They especially underestimate my cane, which I was an expert at wielding.

Stu Gander barely got my temperature rising. All bombast and no bombs.

"Why do you take only some of it, when you could have it all?" I asked, mildly.

Stu shut down in front of me.  His face went blank.  That's how I knew he'd been thinking the same thing.  He was trying desperately not to show it.

"Well, you know..." he ventured.  "I kind of like the little fellow."

"Really," I said, as dryly as I could muster.

He flushed again, his hams curling in a fist.  "Well, why should I --- take it" (felons never steal, they only take) "when I get the lion's share without doing nuttin' wrong?"

Other than charging an enormous surcharge, I thought.  Still, the guy was a little craftier than I'd expected.

"He's down to his last few rocks, you know."

He slouched.  No doubt he'd been suspecting as much.

"Tell you what, my good fellow.   Why don't I tell you where he hides them, and I'll buy them from you for 80% of market value?"

His eyes lit up.  He was crafty, but not terribly bright.  I knew he'd been getting about 50% of value.

"Well, you know -- I like Freedy..."

"100% of market value."

"... but I don't like him that much!"

We shook hands on the deal.