“THE STING”
The central gimmick of Al Nussbaum’s “The Counterfeit Conman” is one neither of us has ever seen used in crime fiction—and this is rather surprising, considering the simplicity of it. Mr. Nussbaum assures us that it is perfectly credible, and if anyone should know, he is that person: he is currently an inmate of the Federal Penitentiary at Marion, Illinois. In addition to writing excellent “con man” stories such as this one, and other mystery shorts (many of which have been anthologized), Mr. Nussbaum is a nationally syndicated and sagacious book reviewer and an expert on subjects dealing with film. - B.P.
He was a big, red-faced man with a nose that was too large and eyes that were too small, and I never heard a grown man whine so much. He sat at the bar, surrounded by flunkies, and didn’t shut up for a moment. To hear him tell it, and no one in the lounge of the Buena Vista Casino heard much else that afternoon, he hadn’t made a nickel’s profit in years. Taxes had left him with nothing.
He might have convinced the Internal Revenue Service, but he didn’t convince me. His hundred-dollar English leather shoes, four-hundred-dollar hand-tailored suit, and thousand-dollar wafer-thin wrist watch all said he was a liar. So did the large diamond he wore on the little finger of his right hand—the hand he gestured with—and the thick roll of currency he carried.
From where I sat, with my back to the wall, I had a good view of both the bar and the entrance arch. I watched Benny Krotz nervously make his way across the casino floor, past the crap tables, twenty-one dealers, and roulette wheels. He paused in the entrance for a moment, blinking his eyes rapidly to adjust them to the reduced illumination. When he spotted me, he came over and dropped lightly into the seat beside me. Benny was a gambler who believed in flying saucers and luck, but he’d never seen either one. A loser if I’d ever seen one, not that my white hair and conservative clothes made me look like a world beater.
I nodded toward the big mouth at the bar. “Is that the mark?” I asked.
Benny hesitated, afraid of giving away the only thing he had to sell. Finally, he acknowledged, “Yeah, that’s the guy. How’d you make him so fast?” His expression was glum.
“I’d have to be deaf, blind, and have a cold to miss him,” I said quietly.
“A cold?”
“Even if I couldn’t hear him or see him, his smell would give him away.” I allowed myself a brief smile. “He smells like money.”
Benny brightened. “He looks good to you, huh?”
“He looks almost perfect. He’s a liar who lives well, so he’s probably dishonest and greedy. There’s no better target for a con game. There’s only one trouble.”
“One trouble?” Benny echoed.
“Uh-huh—this town is crawling with hustlers. If I can spot that guy in less time than it takes to light a cigarette, others have done it too. He’s probably been propositioned more times than the chorus line at Radio City Music Hall. And, considering the type of person he is, he’s probably already fallen for more than one con game, and is extra cautious now. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Benny admitted. “That’s right. He’s been burned.”
“Badly?”
“Yeah, pretty bad. He’s been taken in card games, crap games, and a bunch of con games already.”
I finished my drink and signaled for the waitress. When she had taken our order and left, I turned back to Benny. “What kind of con games?” I asked.
“All the usual: phony stock, underwater real estate, cheap stolen goods that turned out to be perfectly legitimate factory rejects. And Red Harris took him for twenty thousand about six months ago with a counterfeit-money swindle. Red gave him fifty brand-new twenties, telling him they were samples of the stuff he had for sale. He let him try them out all over town, then sold him a wrapped-up telephone book and made a nineteen-grand profit.”
I laughed and looked over to where the mark was sitting. “That must have hurt his pride,” I said. “How about his wallet? What kind of shape is that in?”
“Good shape. Very good shape. That’s Big Jim Thompson, the drilling contractor. He has about half a hundred rigs working throughout the Southwest, and he gets paid whether they hit anything or not.”
“That’s fine,” I said, smiling again. “It would ruin my Robin Hood image to take money from a poor man.”
The waitress brought our drinks, and I paid for them while Benny fumbled politely in his empty pockets. Because my money clip was already out, I removed three one-hundred-dollar bills and passed them to Benny. “For your help,” I said.
“You’re satisfied with him?” Benny asked, snatching up the money. He couldn’t conceal his surprise. “He’s gonna be mighty cautious.”
I shrugged. “I don’t think that will be a problem. Can you introduce us?”
“Yeah, sure.” Benny started to push his chair back. “What’s your name?”
Benny had been recommended to me as a source of information. Since he was in the business of selling what he knew about people, I hadn’t given him any more about me than he needed to know, which was nothing. I had been in the game too long to make that kind of mistake. Now I gave him a name. ‘‘William Henk,” I said, but I didn’t move to get up. “There’s no hurry, Benny. Finish your drink, then we’ll go over.”
Benny could have had ten more drinks; it wouldn’t have mattered. Big Jim Thompson was firmly ensconced at the bar. He was still holding court over his followers when we walked over to them a few minutes later, and he gave every impression of being there for hours to come. He glanced contemptuously at Benny, then he noticed me, and his small eyes narrowed.
“Mr. Thompson,” Benny said, “my friend William Henk wants to meetcha.”
Thompson swung around on his stool, but he didn’t extend his hand, and I didn’t offer mine. “Why?” he challenged.
“Because I’ve been hearing a lot about you,” I said.
“What have you been hearing?”
‘‘That you’re a real sucker for a con game.” I answered, and Benny looked as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach.
Thompson’s face started to go from red to purple. “What business is it of yours?”
“I might have a deal for you.”
“Might have?” Thompson snorted disdainfully.
“Okay, will have. Tomorrow. Meet me here at this time and I’ll tell you about it.”
“What makes you think I’ll be interested in any deal of yours?”
“It will give you a chance to get even for your losses. Maybe get a little ahead. You’d like that, right?”
“So why wait till tomorrow?”
I nodded pleasantly at all his friends. “The audience is too big, and I have someone waiting for me. There’s no rush. This is no con game,” I said, then turned on my heel and walked away. I could feel their eyes on me, but I didn’t look back. I had sunk the hook into Thompson. Now all I had to do was reel him in. Carefully.
I bought a stack of out-of-town newspapers, then drove back toward the hotel where I was staying. I made a lot of unnecessary turns to be sure I wasn’t being followed, and put the rented car in a lot a block away.
I could hear the shower running when I opened the door of the suite, and my wife Margie’s soft voice floated out to me. She was singing an old folk song, but she’d forgotten most of the words. I slipped out of my suit coat, kicked off my shoes, and sprawled across the bed with the newspapers. I read all the crime news I could find. Doctors read medical journals; I study newspapers. Both of us are keeping abreast of the changes in our professions.
Margie came out of the bathroom wrapped in her yellow terrycloth robe. Her long chestnut hair was freshly brushed and shiny. She sat on the edge of the bed and kissed me.
“Anything new in the papers?” she asked. I’d married Margie because she was beautiful and young and made me feel young, too. Later I noticed I had received a bonus—no one ever looked at me when we were together.
“Not much,” I answered. “A couple of bank robberies in New York City—amateurs; a jewel robbery in Miami that has the police excited; and the Los Angeles cops are still hunting for the four men who held up the armored car three days ago.”
“Do you think they’ll catch them?”
“Probably. Men who have to make their livings with guns in their fists will never win any prize for brains,” I said.
Margie stood up and started to unpack more of our clothes. I stopped her. “Don’t bother,” I said. “We won’t be here as long as I figured. I’ve found a live one.”
“Are you going to tell me about it?”
“When it’s over. I’m still working it out in my head,” I said.
The next afternoon, Thompson was waiting for me in the lounge of the Buena Vista Casino when I arrived. He was alone and seemed smaller. He was one of those people who needs an audience before he can come alive.
“What’ve you got to sell?” he asked, bypassing all small-talk preliminaries.
“Counterfeit,” I answered, handing him a single bill.
Thompson stood up without another word and headed for the entrance. I followed him through the arch, across the casino floor, and into the coffee shop. The place was all stainless steel and white Formica, and long rows of fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. There were a couple of customers at the counter, but that was all. Thompson went to the last booth along the wall and sat down, waving away a waitress who started toward him. I took the seat opposite his and waited.
He pulled a ten-power jeweler’s loupe out of his pocket, screwed it into his right eye, and examined the fifty-dollar bill I had given him. I knew he was studying the portrait of Grant, the scrollwork along the borders, and the sharpness of the points on the Treasury seal. And he was finding everything perfect.
“You must think I’m a real fool,” he said with a nasty smile. “This ain’t counterfeit.”
“You don’t think so, huh?” I handed him another fifty-dollar bill. “What about this?”
He was a little faster this time, but his verdict was the same. “It’s real.”
“And this one?”
A look, a feel, a snap. “Good as gold.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “Counterfeit.”
He pointed a blunt finger at the center of my chest. “Listen, punk, I know genuine money when I see it. Whatever you’re planning ain’t gonna work, so forget it.”
“You can be sure of one thing.”
“What’s that?”
I gave him a nasty smile. “I won’t try to sell you a twenty-thousand-dollar telephone book.”
His jaw tightened.
“Instead,” I continued, “I’m going to give you the chance of a lifetime. Those bills are counterfeit. In fact, these samples have one major flaw that the rest of my stock doesn’t have.”
I took the three bills out of his hand and lined them up on the table between us. Then I added three more fifties to the row. “Unlike genuine currency,” I told him, “all six of these bills have the same serial numbers.”
Thompson’s eyes jerked back to the bills, and he snatched up two of them. He held them up to the light and studied them, frowning. After that he compared two more, and sat staring at the six identical Federal Reserve notes.
“Do you still think they’re real?” I taunted.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said in an awed tone. “These bills are perfect.”
“Almost perfect,” I corrected. “But I’ll deliver brand-new, absolutely perfect bills.”
He started to scoop up the money from the table, but I put my hand over his. “Where do you think you’re going with that?” I asked.
He gestured toward the gaming tables. “Out into the casino to test some of this.”
“Not without paying for it first. I don’t give free samples, mister. I don’t have to. I’ve got the best queer there is, and I get fifty cents on the dollar for every dollar. That three hundred will cost you one-fifty.”
“That’s pretty steep for counterfeit, isn’t it?”
“You said yourself, you’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been in business for five years and not one bill has ever been questioned, let alone detected. It’s not every day you get a chance to double your money.”
Thompson gave me a hundred and fifty from the roll he carried, then took my six identical bills into the casino. I ordered a cup of coffee and a hamburger, and settled down to wait for him. I was drinking my second cup of coffee when he returned.
He looked a little stunned by his success. “Not one dealer so much as blinked an eye. I’ve had ’em look closer at good money,” he said.
I didn’t have to give him any more of my sales pitch. He was selling himself. I sat back and sipped my coffee.
He didn’t keep me waiting long. “Tell you what, I’ll take twenty-five-thousand worth.”
I shook my head.
“That too much?” he asked.
“Too little. You’ve seen the last samples you ever will. From now on I sell nothing smaller than hundred-thousand-dollar lots.”
He did some mental arithmetic. “That’s fifty thousand to me, right?”
“No. The hundred thousand is what you pay. In exchange, I give you two hundred thousand in crisp, new tens, twenties, and fifties. Each bill with a different serial number.”
He didn’t say anything right away. I gave him two full minutes to think about it, then slid out of the booth and stood up. “Hell, I thought you were big time,” I said disdainfully, then started to walk away.
Thompson called me back, as I knew he would. He was as predictable as a fixed race. “Okay,” he said. “You’ve got a deal, but you better not be planning a rip-off.”
“How can there be a rip-off? You’re going to examine every bill before you pay me, and you can bring all the help you think you’ll need. And I’m not worried about being hijacked by you because I’ll tell some friends who I’ll be doing business with. If anything happened to me, you wouldn’t be hard to find.”
“So we understand each other,” he said. “Okay, when can we complete the deal?”
“The sooner the better,” I said. “The sooner the better.”
Four hours later, Margie and I were on our way out of town with Thompson’s hundred grand. We were in the rented car because I figured we’d better leave before there was any chance of Thompson getting wise to how I’d tricked him. I could return the car to the agency’s office in L.A. or Frisco.
“You’re really something,” Margie said, hugging my arm while I drove. “When you bought the loot from the armored-car robbery in Los Angeles, you paid ten cents on the dollar because all the money was new, and the numbers had been recorded. You said it was so hot you’d be lucky to get fifteen or twenty cents on the dollar, and then only after you located the right buyer.”
“That’s what I thought until I met Thompson.”
“Didn’t he know the money was stolen?”
“No. He thought it was counterfeit. I showed him six perfect fifties, all with the same serial numbers.” I told her what had happened in the coffee shop.
“Where did you get counterfeit money?” she demanded.
“I didn’t. It was good. Part of the armored-car loot, in fact.”
“You must think I’m stupid,” Margie said. “I know good money doesn’t have the same serial numbers.”
I stopped for a traffic light, then got the car rolling again after it changed. “It does if you take half a dozen consecutively numbered bills and erase the last digit.”
Margie’s mouth opened in surprise. “You can do that? You can erase the numbers?”
“Easier than you’d think,” I said, smiling. “And without leaving a trace, either.”