The Art of the Con (16 page)

It's easy to assume that I've been overly kind with my description of Barry as a savvy businessman who made our scam much more difficult than expected, but when we left him alone on the streets of Charleston with a bag full of worthless paper, he proved just how dangerous and unpredictable a sting can be. When planning the con, my fellow producers and I tried to anticipate the mark's actions in each scenario. This is very similar to how a gifted con artist prepares to engage his mark, playing out all foreseeable options and possibilities in his mind so that, in the heat of the moment, the best option has already been decided. When filming con games, I consider every possibility, then prepare for the unexpected. That afternoon, Barry did not immediately return to the office. Instead, he placed the flight case behind a large potted plant and sat down in front of the nearest store. Most people would just immediately react in this situation, but Barry wisely tried to assess his position before doing anything that might make things worse.

Was his money in the bag? Had he been ripped off? Is there more to this? What do they want me to do next? Sitting on a doorstep, these are the questions Barry asked himself as he searched the street for answers. He was certain that I wanted him to go back to the office with the bag so that was the one thing he was
not
going to do. Money be damned—he wanted to get as far away from that bag as possible. What Barry understood in that moment was just how in the dark he really was and he wasn't about to play further into my hands. Without enough information to make a clear decision, Barry waited to see what happened next.

Back in the office, confusion reigned as we all tried to decide the best course of action. In a way, Barry had turned the tables on us. Sure, we had his money, but we didn't yet have a TV show. Should I go and speak to him? Should we tell him the truth and have him “act surprised” for the benefit of our cameras? One thing I insist upon in my reality shows is actual reality, and I am convinced that the success of
The Real Hustle, Scammed
, and
The Takedown
depends on genuine moments that people simply cannot fake. Naturally, this wasn't terribly helpful when the crew was in a panic, but the producers were firmly on my side in this regard. So, we had only one option: send Barry's nephew, Randy, to bring back his uncle.

It took Randy over five minutes to convince Barry to return to the office. We had given him strict instructions not to explain anything and Barry was insistent about not walking blindly into any situation. After a lot of cajoling, Barry finally stood up and reluctantly followed Randy back to the office. There, he found an empty room with a phone sitting on a small table. When it rang, Barry answered and I told him about the events of the last two days. Barry was confused but cautiously interested in how it might play out. As I stepped back into the office, the look Barry gave me was a mixture of surprise and something more dangerous. Later, he confessed that he was seriously considering a right hook to my jaw, but thankfully, the camera crew was quick on my heels, followed by John, Robin, and the other characters who had been part of the scam.

Barry changed instantly. We hugged and laughed as I revealed exactly how we had taken him down. His interview was honest and insightful and fully illustrated how anyone can fall victim to a well-played con game.

Later, as we talked over dinner, I asked Barry if, had it all been for real, he would have reported the crime or told anyone what had happened. “I'm not sure. Probably not, to be honest . . .” he told me. “But I don't think I'd let it go, either. I sure wouldn't want to be in your shoes if me or my friends caught up with you.” Barry flashed his trademark smile and I quietly wondered just what kind of friends he had back home in New Jersey.

"Y
ou ever trip up, on the street, you know? Stumble or hit your knee off a step? People turn to see, right? What do you do?”

Uncertain, I took a sip of my beer. HL glanced over at the bar and signaled for another pitcher before continuing the lesson.

“You make like it never happened, right? Or you act as if you meant to do it. Like when you get that nodding dog thing and start falling asleep in a warm room filled with people and act like you were just looking down at your crotch for inspiration or some shit. People don't like admitting that they're people. Get it?”

“People?” I asked.

“Human. Just human. Everyone thinks they're special and ego . . . ego is made of glass.”

I struggled to make all the connections as a third pitcher arrived at our table. My head was already fuzzy, but while HL seemed completely lucid, his conversation was scattered and difficult to follow. I started to realize I was a little drunk. HL filled our glasses and continued.

“If they get a scraped knee, or a twisted ankle, people keep walking and act like it was nothing. The last thing they want is to show that they're weak and, if they're still walking, other people could give a shit. That's what I'm saying.”

I nodded slowly, still confused.

“Blood or a broken leg, then people stop and help. And no matter how hard the mark tries to walk away, they're not going anywhere. They got to admit what just happened.” HL poured another glass. “If you hit them too hard, they got to face up to it. Others will notice and they'll have to call for help. You don't want that. You want to hurt them enough to make it worth your while but not so much they can't just walk it off.”

It was the late 1990s. HL was a stocky man with a passion for fried food and cheap beer, and was the kind of person you wouldn't look at twice. He was so ordinary it almost seemed studied, perhaps deliberate. He had a great deal of insight about short cons and claimed he had spent time working with a crew in the Midwest as a younger man. We had met several years before at Denny and Lee's magic shop in Baltimore. He was interested in conjuring, but after chatting for a while I found we shared a deeper interest in con games. That first day we spent many hours in a diner talking about different scams. HL's knowledge was particularly interesting because he seemed to have a greater appreciation for the details of a scam than most people who are interested in the subject.

This was many years before I would find myself pulling con games for real, so I was immediately drawn to HL's level of insight, and it was no surprise when he admitted that he had actually committed most of these scams himself. Over the years that I knew him, we would meet and catch up whenever I was on the East Coast. I would share new magic tricks in return for long discussions about the art of the con.

On this particular hot afternoon we were in a sports bar, just outside of Washington, DC. A football game was on a big TV in the corner, and HL was clearly invested in the result. I assumed he had bet on the outcome, but I later learned he was actually a small-time bookmaker. In between plays, I was trying to glean any knowledge he had about “cooling out” the victims of con games, to avoid them going to the police.

“You can put the squeeze on someone—at the end, maybe—or you can put them in the shit so all they want to do is get clean and wash off the stink of whatever they were buying into. But that's all bullshit, most of the time. You either don't hurt 'em too bad or you hit so hard they can't get back up.”

He turned to me and refilled his glass. “The movies—when Paul Newman shoots Robert Redford to put the mark on his heels—that's show business. I'm not saying it doesn't happen, 'cause it definitely does. It's just not . . . not the usual way. Either you get them mixed up in something they'd never want to admit or you give 'em a way out that's better than saying they were a chump.”

“What if they don't know they were conned?” I ask.

“That's some rare shit, right there. Happens, sure, but eventually, everyone has to wake up. I don't buy that people never know they were conned. Most of the time they know. Can't even admit it to themselves, maybe.”

HL glances back to the TV.

He continues, “The best cool-out—the most satisfying—has got to be when they think it's all their fault. Like playing the tip. You know about that?”

I nodded.

“That's a great one,” he said. “Nothing better than making them apologize after you took their money. Unless they thank you but, like I said, that's rare.”

HL turned back to the television in time to see one of the teams score a touchdown. Across the bar, in the opposite corner, I noticed someone staring at HL, eyes filled with hate. Suddenly, I realized we were in trouble. Before I could get HL's attention, the big man was at our table, sitting down just as HL turned back. My friend's demeanor shifted immediately. He was frightened.

“Remember me?” The big man turned square onto HL, and under the table I heard a metallic click. “Remember me?” he said.

In the dark corner of the bar, I suddenly felt completely isolated, blocked in by this huge, imposing man who clearly had a problem with HL, who was feigning ignorance.

“I've never seen you before. What's the . . .”

“Six months ago. In Baltimore, you sold me that car. The one that wasn't yours. Remember me now?”

For some reason, I hadn't been able to figure out he was one of HL's marks until that moment; abruptly, I found myself in the middle of a genuinely dangerous situation. How much had HL taken from this guy? What was he about to do to HL, or to me? This was all beginning to sink in as the waitress approached.

“Hey fellas. I haven't see you two in a while,” she said. “You guys doing okay? Need another pitcher?”

The waitress rested her hand on the stranger's shoulder and I suddenly realized she knew both him and HL very well. I sat back and took a deep breath as the waitress returned to the bar. HL looked at me, smiled, and shrugged as his friend closed the knife he had been using as a prop. It was a con and I was the mark. Had the waitress not intervened, I could easily have lost every penny I had at that moment.
*

“Don't take it personally, Paul. Just trying to make a living!” he laughed.

We chatted for a while afterward but I couldn't tell you what we talked about. Inside, I was setting fire to myself, angry at being so stupid; to not have realized that, to HL, I was just another sucker. Since then, I've been able to figure out the scam. HL supposedly owed this guy money and was going to get cut if he didn't pay, and, no doubt, he would need me to front the cash while promising to pay me back later.

I assume this is what would've happened. I've never asked him, and since that afternoon, I've only seen him twice—the last time around 2005. Likely out of embarrassment, I've told this story exactly once. It's difficult to admit, even now, that I was so blind to the true nature of our “friendship” and was so easily convinced by the situation. For HL, talking about con games and being a con artist was just his “in” to scam another sucker—me.

As I've already said, anyone can be a mark, and there's a scam out there to suit every type. This was mine. It wasn't the first, it probably won't be the last, but for reasons that took me a long time to fully understand, it has been extremely difficult to admit. Perhaps, in the long run, my reluctance to admit being so easily caught up in HL's flimflam has helped me to empathize with people who went all the way.

It's frustrating to me that so many scams go unreported. The majority of victims are too ashamed or upset to admit what they've done. They can't bring themselves to confront the reality of a lie they completely believed. Many people simply decide to walk away and hope to learn from the experience rather than prolong the pain by pursuing the people who conned them. There are many reasons for this that I will discuss in another chapter, but from the perspective of a con artist, this shame is the automatic “cool-out” that most scams rely upon to succeed.

It's not just about getting the money. In a con game, the objective is to
walk
away—never to run—and to continue playing the same con without fear of pursuit or recriminations. The sad truth is that when victims refuse to report these crimes, scammers remain free to prey on others until the law finally catches up with them.