The Con Man (87th Precinct)

Life, if you take a somewhat dim and cynical view of it, is something like a big con game.

Look around you, friends, and see the confidence men.

“I have in my hand right here, ladies and gentlemen, a bar of So-Soap. This is the only soap on the market that contains neocenephrotaneticin, which we call Neo No. 7. Neo No. 7 puts an invisible film of visible filmy acentodoids on the epidermal glottifram…”

“If I am elected, friends, I can promise you good clean government. And why can I promise you good abusive government? Because I am sincere and untrustworthy. I am honest and selfishly domineering. I am the biggest, the most attentive, the most fastidious violator of the Mann Act, and I can promise…”

“Look, George, where else can you get a deal like this one? We are willing to construct the whole damned thing, take full responsibility for the job, and all it’ll cost you is around two million dollars. And, with that, you get my own personal guarantee. My own personal guarantee.”

“Baby, what I’m trying to tell you is I never felt like this before. I mean, when you walk into a room, Jesus, the room lights up. Do you know what I mean? My heart begins to go up and down like a yo-yo. There’s a light that comes from you, baby, a light that fills up the sky. If that ain’t love, I don’t know what love is. Believe me, baby, I never felt like this. Like walking on air with my head in the clouds, like wanting to sing all the time. I love you, sweetheart. I love you like crazy. So why don’t you be a good girl and take off that dress, huh?”

“I’ll be honest with you. That car had seventy-five thousand miles on it before we turned back the speedometer. Also, that’s a new paint job. We don’t trust new paint jobs. Who knows what’s under that paint, friend. I wouldn’t sell you that dog if you begged me. But step over here a minute and take a look at this lavender-andred convertible that was owned by the maiden aunt of a Protestant minister who used it only once a week to do her marketing around the corner. Now, this car…”





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“The trouble with this guy’s parties is he doesn’t know how to mix martinis. It takes a certain amount of finesse, you know. Now, here’s my formula. You take a water glass full of gin…”

“Hello, friends, I’m George Grosnick. This is my brother Louie Grosnick. We make Grosnick Beer…All right, Louie, you tell them…”





It’s the hard sell and the soft sell, anywhere you go, everywhere you go. It comes at you a hundred times a day, and maybe it’s stretching a point to say that every human being has his own confidence game, that every human being has a tiny touch of larceny in his soul, but be careful, friend; the television is on, and that man is pointing at you!





The man in the dark-blue suit was a con man.

He sat in the hotel lobby waiting for a man named Jamison. He had first seen Jamison at the railroad station when the train from Boston pulled in. He had followed Jamison to the hotel, and now he sat in the lobby and waited for him to appear because the man in the dark-blue suit had plans for Jamison.

He was a good-looking man, tall, with even features and a friendly mouth and eyes. He dressed immaculately. His white shirt was spotless, and his suit was freshly pressed. His black shoes were highly polished, and amazing in this elastic-top-socked age, his socks were held firmly in place with garters.

He was holding a guidebook to the city in his hand.

He looked at his watch. It was close to 6:30, and Jamison should be down soon if he planned on having dinner at all. The lobby bustled with activity. A beer company was holding eliminations for its yearly glamour girl contest, and models swarmed over the thick rugs, accompanied by press agents and photographers. All of the models looked the same. The hair-coloring varied, but otherwise, they all looked the same. They were, in essence, symbols created by con men. They were, too, in essence, con men themselves.

He saw Jamison come out of one of the elevators. Quickly, he rose and stood with the guidebook open at the top of the steps leading to the street. He could see Jamison, from the corner of his eye, moving toward the steps. He buried himself in the guidebook, and when Jamison was abreast of him, he moved sharply to the left, colliding with him.

Jamison looked startled. He was a stout man with a red face, dressed in a brown pinstripe. The con man fumbled for the fallen guidebook, and then, from his knees, said, “Gosh, I’m sorry. Excuse me, please.”

“That’s all right,” Jamison said.

The con man stood up. “I got so involved in this book I guess I wasn’t watching where I…Say, you’re all right, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Jamison said.

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. This darn book is Greek to me. I can tell you that I’m from Boston, you see. I’ve been trying to make out the street—”

“Boston?” Jamison said, interested. “Really?”

“Well, not exactly. A suburb. West Newton. Do you know it?”

“Why, sure I do,” Jamison said. “I’ve lived in Boston all my life.”

The con man’s face opened with delighted surprise. “Is that right? Well, I’ll be…Say, how do you like that?”

“Small world, ain’t it?” Jamison said, grinning.

“Listen, this calls for something,” the con man said. “I’m superstitious that way. Something like this happens, it calls for something. Let me buy you a drink.”

“Well, I was just on my way to dinner,” Jamison said.

“Fine, we’ll have a drink together, and then you can go on your way. Tell you the truth, I’m tickled I ran into you. I don’t know a soul in this town.”

“I suppose we could have a drink,” Jamison said. “You here on business?”

“Yes,” the con man said. “Marlboro Tractor Corporation—know them?”

“No. I’m in textiles myself,” Jamison said.

“Well, no matter. Shall we try the hotel bar, or do you want to scout up something else? Hotel bars are a little stiff, don’t you think?” He had already taken Jamison’s arm and was leading him down the steps.

“Well, I never really—”

“Sure. Seemed to me there were a lot of bars on the next street. Why don’t we try one of them?” He passed Jamison through the revolving doors, and when they reached the sidewalk, he looked up at the buildings, seemingly bewildered. “Now, let me see,” he said. “Which is east and which is west?”

“That’s east,” Jamison said, pointing.

“Fine.”

The con man introduced himself as Charlie Parsons. Jamison said his first name was Elliot. Together, they walked up the street, looking at the various bars, deciding against one or another for various reasons—most of which Parsons offered.

When they came to a place called The Red Cockatoo, Parsons took Jamison’s arm and said, “Now, this looks like a nice place. How about it?”

“Suits me fine,” Jamison said. “One bar’s just about as good as another, the way I look at it.”

They were heading for the entrance door when the door opened and a man in a gray suit stepped out onto the sidewalk. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties, a shock of red hair topping his head. He seemed very much in a hurry.

“Say,” Parsons said, “excuse me a minute.”

The redheaded man stopped. “Yes?” he said. He still seemed in a hurry.

“What kind of a place is this?” Parsons asked.

“Huh?”

“The bar. You just came out of it. Is it a nice place?”

“Oh,” the redheaded man said. “The bar. Tell you the truth, I don’t know. I just stopped in there to make a phone call.”

“Oh, I see,” Parsons said. “Well, thank you,” and he turned away from the redheaded man, seemingly to enter the bar with Jamison.

“It’s the damnedest thing, ain’t it?” the redhead said. “I haven’t been in this city for close to five years. So I come in on a trip, and I’ve been calling old friends since the minute I arrived, and all of them are busy tonight.”

Parsons turned, smiling. “Oh?” he said. “Where you from?”

“Wilmington,” the redhead said.

“We’re out-of-towners, too,” Parsons explained. “Listen, if you haven’t anything else to do, why don’t you join us for a drink?”

“Well, gee, that’s awfully kind of you,” the redhead said. “But I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No imposition at all,” Parsons said. He turned to Jamison. “You don’t mind, do you, Elliot?”

“Not at all,” Jamison said. “More the merrier.”

“Well, in that case, I’d enjoy it a lot,” the redhead said.

“I’m Charlie Parsons,” Parsons said, “and this is Elliot Jamison.”

“Pleased to know you,” the redhead said. “I’m Frank O’Neill.”

The men shook hands all around.

“Well, let’s get those drinks,” Parsons said, and they went into the bar. They took a table in the corner, and after they’d made themselves comfortable, Parsons said, “Are you here on business, Frank?”

“No, no,” O’Neill said. “Pleasure. Strictly pleasure. Some stock I’ve been holding took a big jump, and I decided to take those extra dividends and have myself a hell of a time.” He leaned over the table, and his voice lowered. “I’ve got more than three thousand dollars with me. I think I’ll be able to have a whopper with that, eh?” He burst out laughing, and Parsons and Jamison laughed with him, and then they ordered a round of drinks.

“Drink whatever you like and as much as you like,” O’Neill said, “because this is all on me.”

“Oh, no,” Parsons said. “We invited you to join us.”

“I don’t care,” O’Neill insisted. “If it wasn’t for you fellows, I’d be on the town alone. Hell, that’s no fun.”

“Well,” Jamison said, “I really don’t think it’s fair for you—”

“It certainly wouldn’t be fair, Elliot. We’ll each pay for a round, how’s that?”

“No, sir!” O’Neill objected. He seemed to be a pretty hot-tempered fellow, and somehow, this business of who should pay for the drinks was upsetting him. He raised his voice and said, “I’m paying for everything. I’ve got three thousand dollars, and if that’s not enough to pay for a few lousy drinks, I’d like to know what is.”

“That’s not the point, Frank,” Parsons said. “Really. You’d embarrass me.”

“Me, too,” Jamison said. “I think Charlie’s right. We’ll each pay for a round.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” O’Neal said. “I’ll match you for the drinks. How’s that?”

“Match us?” Parsons said. “What do you mean?”

“We’ll match coins. Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. The drinks had come by this time, and the men sipped a little from their glasses. Parsons took a quarter from his pocket, and then Jamison took a quarter from his.

“Here’s the way we’ll work it,” O’Neill said. “We’ll all flip together. Odd man, the fellow who has a head when the other two have tails—or tails when the other two have heads—doesn’t pay. Then the other two flip to see who does pay. Okay?”

“Fair enough,” Parsons said.

“Okay, here we go,” O’Neill said. The three men flipped their coins and covered them. When they uncovered, Parsons and O’Neill were showing heads. Jamison was showing tails.

“Well, you’re out of it,” O’Neill said. “It’s between you and me now, Charlie.”

They flipped.

“How do we work this?” Parsons asked.

“You have to say whether we match or don’t match,” O’Neill said.

“I say we match.”

They uncovered the coins. Both men were showing tails.

“You lose,” Parsons said.

“I always do,” O’Neill said, and somehow—in spite of his earlier eagerness to pay for the drinks—he seemed miffed now that he actually had to pay for them. “I’m just plain unlucky,” he said. “Some fellows go to carnivals, throw a few baseballs at a stuffed monkey, come home winning a power lawn mower. They buy one ticket in a raffle, and they win the new Dodge convertible. Me, I buy six books of tickets, I get nothing. I ain’t never won anything in my whole life. I’m an unlucky son of a gun, all right.”

“Well,” Parsons said in a seeming attempt to cajole O’Neill, “I’ll pay for the next round.”

“Oh, no,” O’Neill said. “We’ll match for the next round.”

“We haven’t even finished this round,” Jamison said politely.

“Makes no never mind,” O’Neill said. “I’m gonna lose, anyway. Come on, let’s match.”

“You shouldn’t take that attitude,” Parsons said. “I believe that, in matching, or in cards, or in things like that, you can control your own luck. No, really, you can. It’s all in the mind. If you go into this thinking you’re going to lose, why, you will lose.”

“I’ll lose no matter what,” O’Neill said. “Come on, let’s match.”

The men flipped their coins.

Parsons showed heads.

O’Neill showed heads.

Jamison showed tails.

“You’re a real lucky fink,” O’Neill said, his irritation mounting. “You could jump into a tub of horseshit and come out smelling of lavender.”

“Well, I’m not usually lucky,” Jamison said apologetically. He exchanged a quick glance with Parsons, whose uplifted eyebrows clearly expressed the opinion that O’Neill was a strange duck, indeed.

“Come on, come on,” O’Neill said, “let’s get this over with. This time I’ll call.” He and Parsons flipped their coins and covered them. “We match,” O’Neill said.

Parsons uncovered heads.

O’Neill uncovered tails and said, “Son of a bitch! You see? I never win, never! Goddammit, let’s match for the next round.”

“We’re already a round ahead of ourselves,” Parsons said gently.

“You want me to pay for all the damn drinks, is that it?” O’Neill shouted.

“Well, no, no, that’s not it.”

“Why won’t you give me a chance to win back what I’ve lost?”

Parsons smiled gently and looked to Jamison for assistance.

Jamison cleared his throat. “You misunderstand, Frank,” he said genially. “We hadn’t planned on making this a big drinking night. As a matter of fact, I haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“Is three rounds of drinks a big drinking night?” O’Neill asked irritably. “I say we match for the third round. I insist we match for the third round.”

Parsons smiled weakly. “Frank, it’s really academic. We may not even get to the third round. Look, let me pay for the last two rounds, huh? This party was my idea, and I’m a little embarrassed—”

“I lost, and I’ll pay!” O’Neill said firmly. “Now, come on, let’s match for the third round.”

Parsons sighed. Jamison shrugged and caught Parsons’s eye. The men flipped their coins.

“Heads,” Jamison said.

“Tails,” Parsons said.

“Tails,” O’Neill said sourly. “This Jamison never loses, does he? By God, he never loses. Come on, it’s between you and me, Charlie.”

“It’s my turn to call, isn’t it?” Parsons asked.

“Yes, yes,” O’Neill said impatiently. “It’s your goddamn turn to call.” He flipped and covered his coin.

Parsons flipped, covered the coin, and said, “We won’t match this time.” He lifted his hand—tails.

O’Neill uncovered his coin. “Heads! I could have told you! I could have told you even before I looked at the damn thing. I never win! Never!” He rose angrily. “Where’s the men’s room? I’m going to the men’s room!”

He stalked away from the table, and Parsons watched him.

“I’d like to apologize,” Parsons said. “When I invited him, I had no idea he was such a sore loser.”

“Hell, the matching was all his idea, anyway,” Jamison said.

“God, he really got riled up, didn’t he?”

“He’s a peculiar fellow,” Jamison said, shaking his head.

Parsons seemed to have a sudden idea. “Listen,” he said, “let’s have some fun with him.”

“What kind of fun?”

“Well, he’s a sore loser—worst I’ve ever seen.”

“Me, too,” Jamison said.

“He said he’s got three thousand dollars with him. Let’s take it away from him.”

“What?” Jamison said, suddenly righteously indignant.

“Not for keeps. We’ll take it away from him and then give it all back later.”

“Take it away? But I don’t understand.”

“We’ll change the matching rules when he comes back. We’ll make it odd man loses. All right, we’ll make sure that your coin and my coin always match. Nine times out of ten, he’ll be odd man. And loser.”

“How we going to do that?” Jamison asked, beginning to get interested in the idea of a little sport.

“Simple. Keep your coin on end so you can shove it down to either heads or tails. If I touch my nose with my finger, make your coin show heads. If I don’t touch it, show tails.”

“I see,” Jamison said, grinning.

“We’ll keep raising the stakes. We’ll clean him out, and then we’ll give him back his money. Okay?”

Jamison couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Boy,” he said, “he’s really going to blow his stack.”

“Until he knows it’s all a gag,” Parsons said. He patted Jamison on the back. “Here he comes. Now, let me handle this.”

“All right,” Jamison said, secretly beginning to enjoy himself.

O’Neill came back to the table and sat. He seemed angry as hell. “The second round come yet?” he asked.

“No,” Parsons said. “You know, Frank, it’s your attitude that makes you lose. I was just telling that to Elliot here.”

“Attitude, my ass,” O’Neill said. “I’m just unlucky.”

“I can prove it to you,” Parsons said. “Come on, let’s match a little more.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t going to be a drinking night,” O’Neill said suspiciously.

“We’ll match for a few bucks, all right?”

“I’ll lose,” O’Neill said.

“Why not give Charlie’s theory a chance?” Jamison put in.

“Sure,” Parsons said. “I’ve got a little money with me. Let’s see how fast you can take it away from me, using my theory.” He paused, then turned to Jamison. “You’ve got some money with you, haven’t you, Elliot?”

“About two hundred and fifty dollars,” Jamison said. “I don’t like to carry too much with me. You never know.”

“That’s wise,” Parsons said, nodding. “What do you say, Frank?”

“All right, all right, what’s your theory?”

“Just concentrate on winning, that’s all. Think with all your might. Just think, I’m going to win, I’m going to win, that’s all.”

“It won’t work, but I’m game. How much do we bet?”

“Let’s start with five,” Parsons said. “To make it quicker, we’ll do it this way. Odd man loses. He pays each of the other players five bucks. How does that sound?”

“Well, that sounds a little stee—” Jamison started.

“That sounds fine to me,” O’Neill said. Parsons winked at Jamison.

Jamison gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and then hastily said, “Yes, that sounds fine to me, too.”

They began matching.

With remarkable regularity, O’Neill kept losing. Then, perhaps because Parsons wanted to make it look good, Jamison began to lose a little, too. The men matched silently. Their table was in a corner of the place, protected from sight by a translucent glass wall. It is doubtful, anyway, that anyone would have stopped the men from their innocent coin-matching. They flipped, uncovered, and exchanged bills. In a short while, O’Neill had lost something like $400. Jamison had lost close to $200. Parsons winked at Jamison every now and then, just to let him know that everything was proceeding according to plan. O’Neill kept complaining to Jamison—who was losing along with him—about Parsons’s theory. “The only one that goddamn theory works for is him himself,” O’Neill said.

They kept matching.

Jamison did not lose as much now. O’Neill kept losing, and he got angrier with each flip of the coin. Finally, he looked at both men and said, “Say, what is this?”

“What’s what?” Parsons asked.

“I’ve dropped nearly six hundred dollars so far.” He turned to Jamison. “How much have you lost?”

Jamison did a little mental calculation. “Oh, about two hundred thirty-five, something like that.”

“And you?” O’Neill said to Parsons.

“I’m winning,” Parsons said.

O’Neill looked at his two companions with a long, steady gaze. “You wouldn’t be trying to fleece me by any chance, would you?” he asked.

“Fleece?” Parsons asked.

“You wouldn’t be a pair of swindlers by any chance, would you?” O’Neill asked.

Jamison could hardly keep the grin off his face. Parsons winked at him.

“What makes you say that?” Parsons asked.

O’Neill rose suddenly. “I’m calling a cop,” he said.

The grin dropped from Jamison’s face. “Hey, now,” he said, “wait a minute. We were just—”

Parsons, sitting secure with Jamison’s $235 and O’Neill’s $600 in his pocket, said, “No need to get sore, Frank. A game’s a game.”

“Besides,” Jamison said, “we were only—”

Parsons put an arm on his sleeve and winked at him. “The breaks are the breaks, Frank,” he said to O’Neill.

“And crooks are crooks,” O’Neill said. “I’m getting a cop.” He started away from the table.

Jamison’s face went white. “Charlie,” he said, “we’ve got to stop him. A joke is a joke, but Jesus—”

“I’ll get him,” Parsons said, rising. He chuckled. “God, he’s a weird duck, isn’t he? I’ll bring him right back. You wait here.”

O’Neill had already reached the door. As he stepped outside, Parsons called, “Hey, Frank! Wait a minute!” and ran out after him.

Jamison sat at the table alone, still frightened, telling himself he would never again be party to a practical joke.

It wasn’t until a half hour later that he realized the joke was on him.

He told himself it couldn’t be.

Then he sat for another half hour.

Then he went to the nearest police station and told a detective named Arthur Brown the story.

Brown listened patiently and then took a description of the two professional coin-matchers who had conned Jamison out of $235.

P. T. Barnum rolled over in his grave, chuckling.