The Big Con (9 page)

“That’s fine,” said Abbot, “but how are you going to get him a winner?”

“That’s easy,” said Hazel. “I’ll pick up a mark at the track and then you come around. I’ll point you out to him. Then I’ll put you away as that big plunger who won all that money at Frisco last winter. Then you cut in and tell your story. I’ll ask you to win us our hotel bill. I’ll give you a fin and get the mark to give you a fin. Then you can tighten us up not to talk about the race as it is fixed. You take the money and go away and tell us to watch No. 10. That’s all. The horse will be nameless, but no matter. The horse will win. I’ll come back and give you the tickets, but you hold both of them, as they will be phony ….”

Thus, in a crude form, was conceived the very simple principle which could be applied to either races or stocks, and which has accounted for no one knows how many millions in illegal plunder taken by con men in the past thirty-odd years. But what Hazel and Abbot had invented was not the pay-off as we know it today; it was really a crude form of what is now known as the “short pay at the track” and is still played by touts who have the temerity to face the possibility of a prison sentence; very few have. Furthermore the touches almost always “come hot”—that is, the mark is likely to suspect that he has been swindled—and there are no facilities at the track to cool him out.

During the 1906 racing season Hazel and Abbot played their little game at the track, but they were not satisfied with it. They took off very small touches because they could take only the ready money the mark had on him at he track. The touches came too hot, and, seeing the protection
enjoyed by other species of the grift which were played against one form or another of the store, they took their idea to two smart grifters who were engaged in other forms of swindling.

These were the Boone Kid Whitney, later famous as a big-con man, and a friend named Frank MacSherry, later a fine insideman. They were very much impressed by the fact that Hazel and Abbot almost always got a touch, even though it was small. So they put their heads together and planned a layout for a pay-off store, the first in the country; it was rigged like a horse-poolroom, and had a boost composed of professional shills while professional ropers from other rackets brought the marks in. I have been unable to discover who roped the first victim, but I do know that MacSherry played the inside for him and the Boone Kid acted as manager and owner of the poolroom, a small establishment located between Seattle and the race-track. The first score was not large, but the ravenous way in which the mark took the bait showed the con men that they had something too good to throw away.

They played their game around Seattle, for a while, then decided to move their store down to Oakland, near where Hazel and Abbot got their start as touts. But the end was inevitable. The game had great possibilities but was too crude; the fix went wrong and they paid the price of a jolt in prison for their originality; Hazel and Abbot, being touts, could not stand the gaff and never played their little game again.

But the word had gone about in the underworld and smart con men were studying this new game. The third store was opened in San Francisco by a man who also held—and still does—the convenient post of local fixer, and a powerful one he was, too. Kent Marshall, a fine con man by both instincts and training, played the inside, and this time there were no slips. These men knew what they were doing when they tinkered with a con game. The pay-off
was well established by 1907, but was almost unknown off the West Coast. The rest of the story of the pay-off is closely intertwined with the history of the big store, without which it could not have developed; suffice it to say here that, as soon as the news of this new swindle transpired, stores appeared like magic in almost all of the larger cities of the country. By 1915 it had outstripped its rival, the wire, to become the most lucrative of all rackets and remains so today.

Con games never remain stationary; the principle may be old, but the external forms are always changing, for con men know that they must adapt their schemes to the times. This is especially true of the big con. A good grifter is never satisfied with the form his swindle takes; he studies it constantly to improve it; as he learns more about people, he finds a way to use what he has learned. So the big-con men over the country began to improve the pay-off in every way possible. Many of them brought to it the benefit of their experience on the wire. They tried out new ideas, discarding those which failed and developing those that worked. Consequently, the pay-off as we know it today is not only a far cry from the crude little game which Hazel and Abbot started back at the Seattle racetrack, but also a great improvement over its sister-game, the wire. Let us watch it work.

Mr. James Ryan is riding the ocean liners between New York and points south, sometimes going as far west as New Orleans and Galveston. He has connections with a pay-off store in West Palm Beach where a Maine Scotchman, John Singleton, plays the inside. The store is one of the best; Mr. Ryan is a discriminating roper and brings in only the fattest of marks; Mr. Singleton is an insideman of the first quality who, despite the sarcasm and bad temper which make him difficult personally, never lets his personality interfere with his profession and has a reputation for giving any mark a good play.

About four in the afternoon Mr. Ryan boards the steamer. He goes to his stateroom, bathes, shaves and puts on a dinner jacket. Then he goes into the bar, where he sips a drink in a leisurely fashion. There sitting at the bar is a heavy-set, well-muscled man with money written all over him. Mr. Ryan looks him over carefully. He has a feeling that this is his man. It has been months since he has had a touch. He hopes that this man is traveling alone. He watches from the corner of his eye so that he may finish his drink just as the stranger finishes his. Then he “cuts into him” and starts a casual conversation. He orders himself another drink and offers one to the stranger, who accepts. They chat briefly and Mr. Ryan learns that the stranger is from Boston.

The roper never says that he is from New York or Chicago because many marks tend to suspect big-city folks. Usually he picks a small, solid town in the same state from which the mark hails. Ropers travel so extensively that they know almost every town of any size well enough to claim residence there.

And so Mr. Ryan tells the stranger that he is from North Adams, Massachusetts. He mentions a banker in that town. The stranger knows him. They introduce themselves. The stranger is Mr. William Fink. He is a real-estate broker. He looks Mr. Ryan over and feels that he is rather a fine fellow. They hobnob in a friendly fashion. Mr. Ryan finds out discreetly if Mr. Fink is traveling alone. He is. They make a date for dinner.

Mr. Fink is going to Miami. Mr. Ryan is going there too. It is his first visit there. Could Mr. Fink give him any information about accommodations there? Mr. Fink has reservations at the Courtland Hotel and recommends it highly. Mr. Ryan intimates that he will stay there too, since he is a stranger.

During the voyage the two see a good deal of each other. Mr. Fink finds Mr. Ryan an extremely attractive
fellow, well informed on many subjects, and with a keen and ready wit. He is a most agreeable traveling companion. They talk freely and confidentially, each one lying to the other, as men do on the strength of a shipboard acquaintance. Mr. Ryan finds out about Mr. Fink’s hobbies. He listens with extraordinary sympathy to Mr. Fink’s exploits on the golf course. Yes, he knows many of the courses on which Mr. Fink has played. They tire of sports.

Mr. Fink has a twinkle in his eye for every pair of pretty legs on the first-class deck. Mr. Ryan waits for Mr. Fink to broach the subject of women; once he does, Mr. Ryan has several well-told exploits to contribute to the conversation. He knows a very convenient and handsome woman in Boston; he gives Mr. Fink her address and suggests that he call her up on his return. They have drinks. Mr. Ryan usually picks up the checks and does the tipping. He is free, but not too free, with his money. The topic of investment is broached. Mr. Ryan says, “I was lucky in the depression. I got a tip to sell instead of buy just before the crash, and now I’m fixed.” Mr. Fink reciprocates with the troubles of a real-estate broker. He considers himself a shrewd businessman and says as much. Under the polite attentiveness of his friend, he may even lie a little. He gives generously of his mercenary wisdom.

Ryan then decides that this mark is good for at least $25,000, maybe more. He’ll see what John thinks about it. He sends a radiogram:
ARRIVING MARCH 10 MIAMI WITH UNCLE GEORGE. COMING SOUTH FOR HIS HEALTH, JAMES
.

They dock in Miami and ride together to the hotel. Mr. Ryan observes what sort of accommodations the mark has reserved, then inquires for something a little more expensive. After tipping the service men liberally, he takes temporary leave of his friend.

From his suite Mr. Ryan ’phones Mr. Singleton. “Uncle and I just arrived,” he explains. “Where can I see you?”

John says, “I’ll be very glad to see you. Meet me at the cigar store about eight o’clock. Good-by.”

That night at eight they meet and talk the situation over. John looks in his little book to see how many marks are ahead and when Mr. Fink can be conveniently played. They set a tentative date and time. “What do you think we should play him for?” asks John.

“I’d say the ponies,” says Ryan. “He is a real-estate man and seems to know a lot about investments. He ought to be good for twenty-five grand and maybe more. And he likes the best of it.”

“O.K.,” says John. “We’ll give him the hides. What kind of an egg is he?”

“Well, he’s no lop-eared mark,” says Jimmy. “He knows what it is all about. And he may be hard to handle. He is a hefty baby with plenty of moxie. I’d guess hell be hard to cool out.”

“If he gets fractious, he’ll get the cackle-bladder. That cools out those tough babies. Do you want to find the poke for him?”

“We might as well. He’s right there in the hotel with me and it would be a better tie-up than the point-out. And no more trouble.”

“O.K. When do you want to find it?”

“I think tomorrow noon. I’ll ’phone you as soon as I can date him up for lunch.”

And so Mr. Ryan returns to the hotel, ’phones Mr. Fink, makes a luncheon date for one the next day, and relays the information to John.

Ryan and Fink lunch the next day in the exclusive coolness of the hotel dining room. Mr. Ryan is full of questions about Miami. They enjoy a most palatable luncheon. As they are about to go, Mr. Ryan looks embarrassed, glances sidewise under the table, and says, “I’m sorry. Is that your foot I’m on?”

“No,” answers Mr. Fink. “It’s not.” He looks under the
table, bends over, and comes up with a fat wallet in his hand.

“What’s this?” he asks, astonished. “Somebody has lost a pocketbook. Is it yours?”

Mr. Ryan pats his breastpocket. “It’s not mine,” he says.

“Let’s see who it belongs to.”

Mr. Fink opens it up, laying the contents on the table. There is a stack of fifty-dollar bills, twelve in all. Here is a membership card in what we shall call the Turf Club, made out, shall we say, in the name of Henry E. Lamster. And here is a telegram-code with two telegrams, also addressed to H. E. Lamster. Here, in a small compartment, are a pair of race-tickets, and in another, a newspaper clipping. They look at it. It is captioned with a picture of a man shielding his face with his hat, and labeled Henry E. Lamster. They read the clipping. It is from a West Coast paper and describes the phenomenal race-track winnings of one H. E. Lamster. They conclude that Mr. Lamster must own the billfold.

“Shall we inquire at the desk to see if we can find this fellow?” asks Mr. Ryan.

“By all means,” says Mr. Fink. “This wallet is valuable.”

They inquire of the desk-clerk for Mr. Lamster.

“Yes, he is in Suite 4-E,” says the clerk.

“Would you please ring him to see if he is in?”

The clerk rings. “Yes, he is in.”

“Thanks, that is all,” says Mr. Fink. “Can we have a boy to show us up?”

The clerk signals a boy, and they are off. They halt before 4-E and dismiss the boy with a tip. Mr. Fink raps on the door. It opens just a crack.

“What do you want?” snaps a man within.

“Are you Mr. Henry Lamster?” asks Mr. Ryan.

A curt voice tinged with annoyance answers. “Yes, I am. Speak up. What do you want?”

“We found …” begins Mr. Fink.

But Mr. Lamster cuts him off. “Are you newspapermen? If you are, I don’t want to see you. You hound me to death. Get out of here!”

“But,” interposes Mr. Ryan, “we aren’t newspapermen. Have you lost anything? I think we have found something which belongs to you.”

“I haven’t lost anything,” snaps Mr. Lamster.

“Do you have your billfold?”

Mr. Lamster taps his pockets and his brusque manner melts. “My God! It’s gone.” He looks anxiously at his visitors.

“I think we have found it,” says Mr. Fink.

“Well, well, gentlemen. You have saved my life. Do come in,” says Mr. Lamster, opening the door wide. There stands Mr. John Singleton, but there is no sign of recognition between him and his roper. His suite of rooms is luxurious. He turns and paces the floor nervously, rumpling his hair. He is a tall, florid, well-proportioned man, somewhat inclined toward stoutness. On the bed are a pair of telegrams.

“I suppose you can identify this,” says Mr. Ryan, extending the billfold.

“I think so,” says Mr. Lamster, his eyes lighting up. “There should be in it a code-cipher, a membership card in the Turf Club, five or six hundred dollars in cash, and … let me see … a newspaper clipping. Oh yes, and a couple of telegrams.”

“Right, it’s yours,” says Mr. Ryan and passes it over.

“I can’t tell you gentlemen how much I am indebted to you,” says Mr. Lamster. “Here, take this cash and have yourselves a good time. These papers were what I was afraid to lose. Here, you will please me very much if you take this money.” He riffles the edges of the fifty-dollar bills invitingly.

Both men decline.