Ed McBain: The Con Man

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’Neill 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.”