What’s the guy’s name? Fay asked, pencil poised above the legal-size yellow paper that she customarily used to take notes. The inside was so lavishly decorated that the place had been featured in Better Homes and Gardens alongside rococo old mansions from Nob Hill and Pacific Heights. Chan said that the elderly widow’s house was worth $500,000 and stood out from its Sunset District neighbors by virtue of the sheen on its lustrous green roof. The client was an Anglo-Russian expatriate named Hope Victoria Beesley who believed she was being hustled out of several hundred thousand dollars by an odd-jobs worker whose name abruptly appeared on her property deed as co-owner. THE SESSION IN Chan’s small third-floor office wasn’t five minutes old before she realized that this would be a simple research job-no tricks, false closets or mirrors. It was one of the reasons she was usually broke. She considered herself a relaxed and forgiving soul, lighthearted, playful, famous among her friends as an easy touch for men, women, dogs, cats, gerbils, lizards and goldfish. Some of her clients hadn’t paid up in years, but she would rather skate naked across the Union Square ice rink than dun a customer. She was $68 delinquent on her veterinary bill and a week or two behind on less important accounts like electricity and telephone. ONE GOOD THING about Ken Chan, she reminded herself as she climbed into the rattly old car she called the Frog Prince, he’s quick pay, unlike some other lawyers. On one of his cases she’d ended up chasing rustlers in the Arizona desert, earning a year’s supply of flank steak for herself and Beans, her Rastafarian dog and confidant. You could never tell what Chan meant by no big deal. This morning’s caller was Ken Chan, her lawyer and favorite client, asking if she could drop into his office on busy Union Street to discuss an assignment. When she’d first established her one-woman detective agency, she tried answering in a businesslike contralto to create the impression that she employed a receptionist, but a friend complained that she sounded like a table dancer. Read moreįAY FARON ALWAYS answered her phone with a cheery Rat Dog Dick! even though she was well aware that some of her callers would gladly garrote her and feed her to the crabs off Pier 45. Not since Peter Maas' King of the Gypsies has the world of Gypsy crime been exposed in such shocking detail and with more fascinating insight. In this shattering expose, bestselling author Jack Olsen follows Fay Faron as she retraces every step of the Gypsy family and the crimes they stand accused of: moving in on their helpless prey, extorting money, signing the fortunes of elderly millionaires into their own names- and speeding up the death process with sadistic neglect, slow poison, and unspeakable cruelty. Several members of a ruthless family of Gypsies known for their cunning con-games and remarkable ability to extract large sums of money from their unwitting pawns.įay Faron, a beautiful, never-say-die P.I., determined to bring these culprits to justice- even when the authorities turned a blind eye to the Gypsies' crimes time and time again. And they couldn't be stopped- until one courageous woman took on the cases no one else would touch.Įlderly, well-to-do men and women who, due to their failing health, strength, and faculties, could be conned out of their fortunes by heinous neglect, abuse, and possibly even murder. They were a notorious gypsy family that seeped into their victims' lives like a deadly cancer.
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