The big con, p.25
The Big Con, page 25
However, Hot Springs and Council Bluffs were small places; the big political machines in the larger cities did a good job of protecting the con men along with most other forms of organized professional crime; as long as the government could be kept out the con men prospered. But shortly after the Council Bluffs trouble, the fix curdled in Chicago, where Barney the Patch, in front of the Sherman Hotel, engaged in a shooting fray with detectives who appeared to be trying to protect someone higher up, the final score being one slug in Barney and one copper down.
There was no doubt that the government meant business. From this time on, con men concentrated about certain focal points where the local fix was strong as it could be made, perfected further their “cooling-out” systems, and hoped for the best. Probably the greatest single round-up of con men occurred not under the Federal Government, but under the direction of Colonel Philip Van Cise, District Attorney in Denver, who, financed by a citizens’ fund and backed by State Troopers who were not involved in the local fix, engineered a series of raids in March, 1923. Although Federal Inspector Graham assisted in collecting evidence, the government did not prosecute. Moving with great secrecy so as to avoid tipping off his plans, Van Cise’s Rangers closed in on the big stores controlled and operated by Lou Blonger and corraled more than thirty big-con men, some of them first-raters, including Blonger’s ace insideman, A. W. (Kid) Duff. The raids were so carefully organized that not a single local police officer nor any member of the city or county machines knew about them; the Rangers, as a preventive against escape of the con men, kept them out of the city and county jails, and herded them into a church basement where they were held under armed guard. Because of the strength of the local fix, special prosecutors, S. Harrison White and H. C. Riddle, were brought in to try the cases. This time there were no delays and continuances, no bribing of the judge or buying of the jury. By the end of March more than a score of them had been convicted and sentenced.
While in the meantime many con men have been sent to prison, some of the outstanding big-timers who have served sentences since the inception of the big-con games would include the Yellow Kid, John Henry Strosnider, Charley Gondorff, Lee Reil and several others. The Yellow Kid has done five or six stretches, all very short, and is now in the midst of the latest one. He seems to have captured the public imagination and likes the publicity which attends all his exploits. “When the Yellow falls,” said one of his best ropers, “there is always a lot of notoriety connected with the case. He seems to play for it. Well, he surely gets it—in the neck.” Charley Gondorff was sent up from New York City, in spite of the fix. Joe Furey and Goldie Gerber, partners with others in the Norfleet case, went up in the 1920’s, Furey for twenty years (an unusually stiff sentence which he did not live to finish) and Goldie for ten (which he reduced greatly by good behavior). The fix, which had always heretofore been “airtight” for Lee Reil, went sour and Lee, with his partner—one of the few con men reputed to be stool pigeons—were sent up from Los Angeles. Mickey Shea and his mob from Toledo, Ohio, were sent up for five years (in spite of all the powerful Nibs Callahan could do to fix for them) for beating a Michigan farmer on the pay-off; there were two exceptions in this mob; Jack Arthur was, in some mysterious manner, released from prison and packed the racket in, while Eddie Mines, wanted with the same mob, fled to Canada, fought extradition, and has remained a lamster ever since. John Henry Strosnider beat a banker from the stockyards district in Chicago, fought the case bitterly to the Supreme Court of the United States, but lost and drew a one-to-ten year bit, of which he served one year. Prominent men who were imprisoned for taking off large touches on the short-con would include Eddie Schultz and Joe Simmons from Coney Island, both first-rate big-con ropers, who, in spite of all the fixing they could do, got ten years for a smack-touch. A curdled fix in Philadelphia brought Fred Manning and Curley Carter each five years on the same sort of short-con touch. The High Ass Kid, a first-rater who escaped the penalty for many a big-con touch, received a short term in New York for a short-con touch in the summer of 1939. Many other big-timers have served time—some of them under false names. Most recent of the really big-time fixers to be sentenced are perhaps William Graham and James McKay, Reno, Nevada, vice lords who have for years protected both rag and pay-off stores where some of the largest single scores in recent years have been taken off. In February, 1938, they were convicted in federal court, but their nine-year sentences were delayed until August, 1939, in order to give them time to raise the $30,000 in fines and court costs which the government assessed.
The more prominent a con man is in his profession, the harder he “falls” when he does get into trouble. Obscure professionals, even if they are convicted, get off rather easy. But the big-timers, with scores of big touches back of them, a horde of beefing marks at their heels, and a court disposed to take an unsympathetic view of their long and habitual record, are likely to find little mercy at the hands of a federal judge. Also, because of their known prosperity, they find fixing expensive and the shakedown constantly stares them in the face. Then, too, some big-con men seem to be just naturally unlucky, like Little Jeff Sharum, a partner of the Postal Kid, who has done a dozen stretches in prison and recently died behind bars; his bad luck with the law was paralleled—and equaled—by his sad fortune with women. Other con men like Post and Allen seem to be watched over by a lucky star, for they grift away for a lifetime without a single fall to discourage them. But all con men know that, ninety per cent of the time, the panacea for all legal troubles is the fix.
Once a con man is sent to prison, the odds are heavily against his serving much time. If he has exhausted his personal funds during the trials, his friends—and his enemies—in the underworld will raise any sum necessary to alleviate his incarceration. This means that while he is in prison, pressure will be put directly upon prison officials by politicians and fixers so that he will receive favored treatment, get easy work, have luxuries which are ordinarily denied prisoners, and even, as a trusty, be permitted outside prison walls where he can have access to liquor, women and friends on certain occasions. Con men are notably adaptable to any sort of existence and adjust to prison life much better than other types of professional criminals; but, above all, they miss the excitement, the tension, the high pressure under which they live; they love their freedom, and they are not long in getting it. They seldom do more than two or three years at most for any big-con touch.
Back in 1919 a group of con men, five in all, swindled a Texas rancher, Frank Norfleet, on the rag. First they played him for $20,000, then almost immediately gave him a second play for $25,000. He was a prime example of a mark who could not be cooled out. He determined to catch and convict all the swindlers. Hampered by the fix in almost every city where con men operated, he devoted two years of his life and more than $80,000 to catching these men and returning them for prosecution. He was, on several occasions, offered all his money back, but he seems to have developed a complex; nothing would satisfy him but conviction and imprisonment. Con men seriously discussed having him taken for a ride. This case was prosecuted with great vigor. Finally in 1922–1923, all the men had been caught and one had committed suicide. They fought the case bitterly, but all went to prison. The case received so much publicity that it might appear that politicians would hesitate to intervene in an effort to reduce their sentences. Yet, four years later, Norfleet was disillusioned and somewhat discouraged to find that not a single one of the confidence men he had hounded with such determination remained behind bars. Such is the tale of the fix.
8
Short-Con Games
1
The short-con games are, theoretically, any confidence games in which the mark is trimmed for only the amount he has with him at the time—in short, those games which do not employ the send. However, big-con operators do sometimes put the send into short-con games with excellent results, so, perhaps it is more accurate to say that, from the big-con man’s point of view, short-con games are any con games except the rag, the wire and the payoff. Before the advent of the big-con games (including the wrestle, foot-race, and fight send stores, and other obsolete forms which were, in principle, big con) everything was short con. Generally speaking, we might say that the short con went out with the horse and buggy; of the scores of short-con games* which were widely and expertly played in 1900, only a few remain in the hands of competent professionals. Here we are concerned only with those short-con games which are regularly used by big-con men to tide them over between touches on the big con. Meanwhile the older con games have passed into the hands of short-con men, who still use them with surprising success. Just as this is being written (November 21, 1939) the newspapers carry headlines telling of several Texas bankers who were swindled for $300,000 on the old gold brick game, a chestnut, if ever there was one. The games grow old but the marks are always new.
The touch from the big-con games is usually gone with the wind; it is spent or squandered or lost at gambling in a remarkably short time. To the ordinary citizen, $50,000 seems like a great deal of money; if he had it, he would invest it and live from the income for a lifetime; he would, probably, adjust his wants to his income. But not so the con man. Much of his $50,000 is spent before he makes it, for he owes many debts. His living is geared to high speed. He has no sense of the value of money and seems to see how rapidly he can empty his pockets. Within a few weeks, or, sometimes, within a few days after he has taken off a touch, he is broke and living on borrowed money.
One doesn’t pick up a mark for the big con every day, but suckers for the short con are much easier to find. And, since most good big-con men cut their teeth on the short-con games, it is only natural for them to fall back on some short-con game when they need money. As they travel over the world, their expenses mount up and they feel the necessity for some other source of income. “The only way to keep the nut down,” says one con man, “is to make a rule with yourself to get a hype touch every day for a sawbuck by laying the double-saw.” The hype is a form of short-change racket with a clever line of con talk which accompanies it. It is always good for a ten-dollar bill.
Of the several short-con games regularly used by big-con men perhaps the smack is the most popular and the most lucrative. It requires a minimum of equipment, no store, and two men only are necessary. A mark can always be found in any metropolitan railway station. Each smack mob has its own particular variation of the game, but the following version should make the principle clear.
The roper waits in the “shed” or railway station, in, let us say, Indianapolis, while the insideman “plants” himself at a pre-arranged spot a short distance from the station. The roper watches for a prospect—preferably a country man or a small-town merchant who is waiting for a train. He cuts into him and finds out where he is going. The mark says he is waiting for a connection to, shall we say, Marion, Indiana. “I’m going out on that same train,” says the roper. “It doesn’t pull out for an hour. Let’s walk up town and look over the city a little.” The mark sees no harm in this, so the two stroll out of the station, the roper meanwhile asking the mark all kinds of questions about Marion, Indiana, which is to be his destination also.
A short distance down the street they are accosted by the insideman, who has a marked Southern accent. “I beg your pardon,” he says, “but could you tell me where the Merchants’ Bank Building is?” The roper turns to him rather rudely and says, “No, we can’t.”
The stranger takes offense at the roper’s curt manner. “You wouldn’t tell me if you did know,” he sneers.
“What’s that?” says the roper, annoyed.
“I said you wouldn’t help me if you could, you damned cheap Yankees,” says the Southerner with a good deal of heat.
“What do you mean, cheap?” demands the roper. “We’ve got just as much money as you have. You can’t insult us just because we’re strangers here. I said we don’t know where the Merchants’ Bank is, and we don’t. Do we?” he asks, turning to the mark.
“No, we don’t,” says the mark.
“I beg your pardon,” says the Southerner politely, “I thought you gentlemen lived here. Down in Alabama where I come from folks try to help each other out. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“I’ll tell you what,” says the roper, “We don’t want you to think we’re cheap. We just didn’t realize you were a stranger here, too. I’d like to buy a round of drinks. Come on, and I’ll set ’em up.”
“No, thanks,” says the Southerner. “I don’t drink with Yankees. I don’t trust ’em.”
“Well, then, let me buy smokes all around,” says the roper.
“I’ve got plenty of money and can buy my own cigars,” says the Southerner.
“I don’t doubt that,” says the roper. “I just wanted to be sociable. Well, if you won’t let me buy them, I’ll match you for them.”
“All right,” agrees the Southerner, “I’ll match you for them.” He starts fishing for a coin.
The roper turns to the mark and whispers, “You call heads and I’ll call tails every time and we’ll have some fun with him.”
“Are you ready?” asks the Southerner, poising his coin.
“O.K.,” say the other two.
They match and of course the odd man wins the smokes and the Southerner, whatever he turns up, loses to one or the other of his opponents. He grows testy at this and proposes that he will match them for a whole box of cigars, punctuating his proposal with pungent remarks about cheap Yankees who want to gamble for the price of a cigar.
“I can’t use a whole box of cigars,” says the roper.
“Well, how much does a box of cigars cost, four dollars? All right. I’ll match you for the price of a box.”
The roper gives the mark a wink and they match again. Naturally the insideman loses, this time to the mark, who begins to see possibilities in this game. Then the roper begins to kid the touchy Southerner, whose temperature mounts perceptibly.
“We could take every cent you’ve got the same way,” he says.
“I don’t see how you could,” says the Southerner, heatedly. “I’ll just show you. I’ll match you dollar for dollar for all the money you have on you.” The roper and the mark get out their wallets, and they smack the coins on the back of their hands. (A smack-player, on reading this, comments: “Marks carry their money in the funniest places. They get it out of their shoes, their socks, their hat bands, and out of their seams. Some carry it all sewed in and have to cut it out before they can play.”) The roper whispers to the mark that they will divide up the winnings later. Again they match. Since the mark has called heads, the insideman throws heads also, which leaves the roper the odd man. The Southerner fumes and frets, but pays the roper all his money. The mark then pays the roper all his money, and the insideman takes his leave, cursing his luck.
The roper and the mark pass on down the street, stopping just around the corner. The roper begins to sort out the wallets and divide the money. Just as he is paying the mark off, the old Southerner pops around the corner.
“By God!” he says, “I might have known this was a trick. What are you men doing with that money? You are dividing it, aren’t you?”
“Why, no,” says the roper. “We were just talking.”
“It doesn’t look that way to me,” says the insideman. “It looks to me as if you two are in cahoots to swindle me.”
“Why,” says the roper, “we are total strangers. I never saw this man in my life before I met him just now in the station. I won and won fairly, and I intend to keep the money.”
“That’s right,” says the mark. “This man is telling you the truth. I never met him before I got off the train in the station there.”
The insideman is still suspicious, but finally agrees not to have them arrested. “Now,” he says, “to show me that you two are not together, and that there is no conspiracy here, you separate, and you go that way, and you go that way. Then I can watch you and see that you don’t get together.”
The two men agree, and the roper whispers to the mark, “I’ll see you on the train.” Then each goes his way, the mark to the station and the roper toward the city. The Southerner watches them angrily until they are out of sight.
The mark arrives at the station in time to board his train. He fully expects that his friend will get on and divide the profits with him, but the roper is at that moment dividing the touch with the Southerner. The train pulls out and the mark is disillusioned. The roper plants the old Southerner again and returns to the station for another mark.
Touches from this game run from fifty dollars to several hundreds of dollars. Marks have been found with several thousands of dollars in cash, but touches over $3,000 are indeed rare. The blow-off is simple, for the mark has his ticket and is scheduled to leave immediately after the score. The con men usually make sure that he has boarded the train before they pick up another mark; also, the roper always makes sure that the victim has his fare or his ticket, and that he has enough money to buy his meals until he gets to his destination. This keeps him from getting panicky and going immediately to the police. Sometimes marks do go immediately to the police, but if the fix is in, the detectives cool him out just as they would on a big-con touch and the fixer settles for the whole thing.
Smack mobs work mostly in the early morning, take the afternoon off and work again at night. They know that strangers in a large city cannot sleep and that they are likely to arise early and wander about the streets until train time, or go early to the railway station. Hence, a good smack mob can usually stop work by noon with one or two good touches. At night, the same game, with some variations, is worked in night clubs and hotel bars where the roper and the mark start matching the insideman for drinks. There are many variations to the game, but the principle and the essential elements are always the same.
