Authors: David Maurer
“Well, then, you both must be my guests for an evening while you are here. Drinks. Dinner. A show. And maybe some girl friends, eh?” He glances knowingly at Mr. Fink. “Meanwhile let me place a bet for you which will cover your hotel bills while you are here.”
“A bet?” asks the roper. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You see,” explains Mr. Lamster, “the reason I was so rude to you is that I thought you were newspapermen. You see how they hound me.” He takes out the clipping and passes it over to Mr. Fink. “They make life miserable for me whenever they learn who I am. You see, I win a good deal of money at the races and that brings notoriety, which is unwelcome to say the least.”
“You mean you have some hot tips?” asks Mr. Ryan.
“Well, in a way, yes. You see it is like this. I work for a large syndicate which ah—shall we say—purchases races wholesale at tracks all over the country. I am just an agent. I place bets for the syndicate to the great—ah—disadvantage—of bookmakers and gambling clubs. Naturally, any publicity is very detrimental to my business. I receive all my instructions in code, and without my cipher I would be unable to carry out my orders.” He waves the cipher under their noses. There is a knock at the door.
“Telegram,” says a bellhop, and Mr. Lamster signs.
“You mean to say,” asks Mr. Ryan, “that you bet on races that are fixed in advance?”
“Well, yes, if you want to put it that way. That is why it would be so simple for me to place a small bet for you which, at favorable odds, should make you pin money at least. Let me place, say, fifty dollars apiece for you gentlemen and if things work out as I expect, you will make a neat killing. Let me see, I think I have something here.”
As he decodes the telegram, Mr. Ryan turns to Mr. Fink (if Mr. Fink has not already turned to Mr. Ryan) and
asks, “What do you think of it? I think I’ll let him win my hotel bill.”
“We might as well,” says Mr. Fink. “It doesn’t cost him anything.”
“Here, gentlemen, is a very good thing,” says Mr. Lamster. “You must excuse me for half an hour. Here are drinks and cigars. Help yourselves. Just make yourselves comfortable and I’ll be right back.”
“Put something on it for us,” calls Ryan, half in jest.
Mr. Ryan and Mr. Fink sample the liquor and cigars. There is Seltzer water and ice. They sit back and speculate upon this peculiar person they have met. “He may be just a nut,” observes Mr. Fink, “but at least it isn’t costing us anything. And this is good whisky.” Mr. Ryan comments upon the sad state in which the racing world finds itself, when the race-fans haven’t a ghost of a chance and a big syndicate takes all the sport out of the thing.
Before long Mr. Lamster lets himself in. He takes from his pocket two sheaves of bills. “Here is a couple of hundred apiece,” he says. “Have another drink.”
The two men count their money and Mr. Fink begins to covet mightily the power that this man has. Another telegram arrives. Mr. Lamster decodes it rapidly. “Here’s another one,” he says. Then, turning to Ryan, “Here, give me that $200 I just made you.”
Mr. Ryan hands it over.
“Now yours,” he says to Mr. Fink, who obediently surrenders his $200.
And before either can protest, he has picked the bills from their fingers and hurried out.
He is not gone long. When he returns he hands each man $600 in crisp greenbacks. Mr. Fink is very much impressed. Why in no time, he could build up that $600 into a fortune ….
The con men may play for their victim that afternoon.
They may let him sleep on it if they feel that he is not yet securely hooked. Let us assume that, as a tribute to Mr. Fink’s conservative and substantial virtues, they allow him to contemplate overnight the phenomenon of $600, now reposing in his wallet, made in the twinkle of an eye—and without any risk or investment whatever on his part.
His doom is set for the following day at four.
That night Mr. Ryan and he dine together and go to a night club afterward. Mr. Ryan doesn’t want anything spectacular to happen to that $600 which Mr. Fink has in his pocket. Mr. Ryan seems to have formed a very good opinion of Mr. Lamster. Mr. Fink likes him too; in fact, he would like to know him better; he does not suspect Mr. Ryan of fostering this feeling gently, but nevertheless effectively. This is the first step in “switching” Mr. Fink’s confidence from the outsideman to the insideman, a difficult and delicate step which must be successfully negotiated if the pay-off is to reach its maximum in effectiveness.
The next day the roper visits Mr. Fink in his room. He proposes exactly what Mr. Fink has in his own mind—that they look up Mr. Lamster and see if he will give them some more horses to bet on. They find him in his suite, busily decoding telegrams.
“I’m very glad you called,” he says. “I need someone I can trust, and I know from the way you gentlemen returned my wallet yesterday that both of you are O.K. Now I am going to give you a chance to make a little money. They are beginning to suspect me down at the Turf Club. I’ll have to stay out of there for a week or so. But this guest card will admit you without question. And here is a horse in the fifth race. Bet him to win. And I’ll give you a blank check. I don’t know who I’d rather accommodate this way.”
“But how do we do it?” asks Mr. Ryan.
“Well, you still have the $600 you won yesterday?” asks Mr. Lamster.
“Sure,” says Ryan, producing the currency.
“All right. You have yours, Mr. Fink?”
“Yes, indeed!”
“All right. Here. You give your $600 to Mr. Ryan. That makes $1,200 for the two of you. Now do exactly as I tell you. Mr. Ryan, when the time comes to bet, you make out and sign this check for $50,000. Place it together with your $1,200 on Dancing Cloud in the fifth race. The odds will be about 4–1. That ought to net you—let’s see– about $256,000.”
“But, see here,” protests Mr. Ryan, “I haven’t got $50,000 in cash to take up that check. That is a big check to put my name to.”
“Never mind that,” says Mr. Lamster. “Never mind that at all. Your entrance card here will assure your credit. Then just as soon as you win, you can take up your check without the slightest trouble. You see, I can’t send my check or I’d advance you the money. I might as well go myself.”
“O.K.,” says Mr. Ryan. “But what if we don’t win?”
“You can’t very well lose,” interposes Mr. Fink. “It’s a sure thing.”
“Mr. Fink,” says Lamster, laughing, “you certainly catch on in a hurry.”
And so out they go armed with their cards, the check, and information which is to make them a small fortune. Their magic cards get them past the doorman without question. They find the club a swank, private affair, with a carefully selected boost giving it a heavy play. There is deep carpet on the floor. There is a small bar on one side. Bright, streamlined furniture makes the gamblers comfortable. Indirect lighting throws soft glow everywhere. And the big bets are going down thick and fast. They take
their time to look the place over. There is still plenty of time before the fifth race. And there is something intoxicating about watching gentlemen lay down $100,000 bets without batting an eye.
They watch the board-marker up in front. His earphones are on a sliding wire which runs up over his head. As he moves rapidly backward and forward, up and down, the sliding wire follows him. He chalks up the races rapidly. There is a low, murmurous hum of voices, a clink of ice in glasses over at the bar. The second flash has just come in. The odds on Dancing Cloud settle down to 4–1.
At their leisure they go to the cashier’s window and place a bet of $51,200 at 4-1 on Dancing Cloud to win.
*
The cashier asks for their credentials, examines them, and accepts the check without question. He gives Mr. Ryan a ticket which calls for $256,000 if Dancing Cloud wins. There is still ten minutes before post-time. Mr. Fink has plenty of time to watch the heavy play going on all around him. It must take nerve to play with money like that. What kind of lives do these men live? he wonders. Their personal fortunes must be unlimited.
The marker hastily puts in the last flash on odds. The fifth race is up. There is Dancing Cloud, still 4–1. “They’re off!” says the caller. Dancing Cloud remains under wraps for the first quarter, the second quarter. Then he moves up to third place and holds it easily. In the stretch he makes his move, fights desperately for the lead, takes it, and pounds home under the wire a winner.
Fink and Ryan exchange jubilant glances. It looked bad there for the first half, but it worked! It worked! “Those jocks must know their stuff,” observes Ryan, “to pull a race like that. Nobody would ever suspect it.”
Mr. Fink is drawn to the cashier’s window as by a magnet. All around betters are tearing up their tickets—tickets for tremendous bets—as if they were laundry bills. There is much good-natured grumbling at the outcome of this race. Nobody had doped it out that way. Mr. Ryan is right at Fink’s elbow with his ticket. Two hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars. That is a lot of money. Ryan moves to cash it.
“Sorry, sir,” says the cashier. “Those results are not yet official. The judges’ decision will be in in just a moment.”
They wait at the window, standing aside so that the betting on the sixth race may proceed. Mr. Ryan calls attention in an undertone to the large bets which are being laid. Mr. Fink has never seen so much money, even in a bank. The shelf behind the cashier is literally piled high with stacked currency. The cash drawer is overflowing. It is actually on the floor.
“The results of the fifth race are official,” announces the caller.
Mr. Ryan lays down his ticket. The cashier glances at it and calls, “Bring me $256,000.” His assistant lays the stacked bills at his elbow. He begins to count them out, pushing them under the grating to Mr. Ryan.
At this moment the manager steps forward and asks, “How did you gentlemen get in here? This is a private club.”
They show their cards. “Hmmm,” he says, “you have a pretty big bet here.” Then, turning to the cashier, “Did you take this gentleman’s check?”
“Yes, sir,” says the cashier, and produces it, with a duplicate ticket from his file.
The manager studies the check a moment and looks again at the cards. “Well, you have won this bet,” he says quietly. “This money is rightfully yours. We’ll put this check through the bank and if they O.K. it, you’ll be paid off. We’ll impound your money right here, and you stay in
the city until the bank reports back. And by all means keep that ticket. It is your receipt.”
“But,” objects Mr. Fink, “twelve hundred of that bet was in cash. It seems to me that you should honor that bet immediately. Pay us the six thousand and hold the check.”
“Not at all,” says the manager firmly. “If you wanted that kind of settlement, you should have placed two separate bets. As it is, this is all one bet and will have to be paid all at once. Good day, gentlemen.”
Back go our friends to Mr. Lamster in the hotel. He is not particularly perturbed and quiets Mr. Ryan’s misgivings about the $50,000 check he has just signed.
“Just be patient and don’t get excited,” says Lamster, “and everything will be all right. Don’t worry about it.”
“Can’t you give us some more tips, and maybe we could build up what cash we have into enough to redeem the check,” suggests Mr. Fink.
“I wish I could,” says Mr. Lamster. “But I haven’t any more coming through today. That check will have to be taken care of immediately. Why don’t you go back and talk to the manager privately and see what kind of settlement he will give you? Ask him to give you a little time on the check and we’ll think of some way to cover it.”
Ryan and Fink find the club still open and going strong. They ask for a private conference with the manager. He keeps them waiting for some time. Then he ushers them into his private office.
“We are the men who won that $256,000 this afternoon,” begins Mr. Ryan.
“What $256,000?” asks the manager, looking at them blankly. “What are your names? The play here is so heavy that I can’t possibly keep track of all of it.”
“This is James Ryan and I am William Fink,” says Mr. Fink, producing one of his business cards. “The bet was made in Mr. Ryan’s name.”
The manager picks up one of his numerous telephones and buzzes. “Bring in the file on Ryan, James,” he says.
The other ’phones on his desk ring busily. Another clerk answers them, taking down large bets. He turns to the manager. “Excuse me,” he says, “but Mr. Whitney wants to put $250,000 on Sorteado to win at 3–1.”
“That’s fine,” says the manager. “Take it and ask for more of it. They all have to go round and round before they win. And don’t bother me with those details.”
The assistant cashier comes in with a file. It contains the betting slip, the check, and a note to the effect that the slip is not to be cashed until the check is cleared.
“Oh, yes,” says the manager, “I remember you men now. I was lucky to catch the cashier just paying you off. That was very lax. This club protects its members carefully against impostors and fourflushers. I believe you came in here on rather questionable credentials.”
“We have a guest card, but we won’t argue about that,” says Mr. Ryan. “But please don’t send that check back immediately. I can deposit the cash in a local bank very soon, and you can clear it through. But right now I am somewhat embarrassed for funds in my home bank.”
“Then you shouldn’t have written the check,” says the manager. “But I’ll give you a chance to redeem this check if it is done quickly. I still have it here. It should go through the bank immediately, but I’ll hold it for a short time. You deposit the $50,000 cash in our bank. That will show that you could have paid the bet in case you had lost. That is very important.”
“You’ll hold my check for, say, a week?” asks Mr. Ryan.
“Yes, although it is not quite regular,” answers the manager.
Ryan and Fink go back to the hotel to report their success to Mr. Lamster. Ryan feels quite proud of the concession he has gained, and shows it. Mr. Fink likes him less and less. He would like to see him cut out of the deal
entirely. They hold a council to see how the money can be raised quickly. This stage of the game, designed to show the con men exactly how much money their victim can raise, is known as the “breakdown.”