“Now the con signals I taught you are just basic ones. As we go along, I’ll teach you the rest of them. I want you to memorize every quirk and reaction of the suckers we play. Every sucker is different. The bigger sucker frame of reference you have, the better and the faster you will learn to play good con.
“We’re lucky to play together. Your white skin gives us a slick edge on white and black marks. I’ll catch the Nigger marks and you catch the white ones.
“To the Niggers, I say, ‘Let’s take that goddamn pecker-wood’s money.’ You tell the white marks. ‘Let’s break that bastard nigger.’
“Never mumble, Folks. Speak clearly like an actor on the stage or in the movies, so the mark can hear every word of the con.
“Don’t catch any crippled or cross-eyed marks. They’re jinky. And run from a mark that stutters. It’s the quickest way to the pen to play for one. And for God’s sake, don’t catch a mark dressed all in black.
“Don’t waste your sympathy on our marks. Those sonsuvbitches are thieves at heart. They’d play the con themselves if they knew how. It’s the mark who’s too honest to go for the con that’s really on the square.
“That’s all for now, Folks. There will be lots more as we go along. Any questions?”
I said, “No, everything fits like a glove so far.”
He said, “Goodnight, partner.”
He went to bed. I tipped in and got a belt of rum and coke. I played the smack in my sleep until daybreak.
By eight A.M. we were in the Caddie cruising down Cottage Grove Ave. The radio crackled with the news of a big dance hall fire in Natchez, Mississippi.
Blue said, “I’m glad that Jim Crow joint burned down. It’s a little too early to work our stockyards plan for a score. We’ll go to the Dearborn Station shed to test your wings.
“Stop shaking, Folks. The first mark is always the hardest. The amount of a grifter’s first score isn’t the least bit important to him. The first sucker money you take off, even if it’s only a lousy sawbuck, will be like a million-buck score. You’ll get that wonderful feeling when you break the ice with your first sucker.”
Blue parked on Taylor Street near Dearborn Street. We walked down Taylor to the corner of Dearborn. We were at the point of splitting up when Blue went rigid.
He whispered, “There’s no point in splitting up. We can’t get down here.”
I saw a tall, very skinny white guy standing on the sidewalk in front of the Dearborn train station. A dark brown-skinned redcap was standing beside him. The redcap was saying something to stringbean, who was sweeping our faces with tiny, hard blue eyes.
We turned away and went back to the Caddie.
As we pulled away, Blue said, “That redcap is a stool pigeon. He put the finger on me when he worked at Union Station. That skinny peckerwood has to be Sweeney the Snake.
“Grifters have described him and warned me about him many times. It’s Sweeney all right. He’s a bunco roller. That old gray-haired bastard will remember us twenty years from now. They say he never forgets a face.”
I said, “He sure looks like a snake, with that chinless face and tiny eyes.”
Blue said, “Those are not the only reasons for his tag. Back in the early Twenties he wiggled from a narrow ventilator to nail a team of white grifters playing a mark in a fake office in the Loop. He’s clever all right.”
I said, “Are we going to try at another train station?”
Blue said, “Not this morning. The Snake is probably making a tour of the stations. And he’s one of those rare goddamn rollers. He’s so honest, he’d probably beat hell out of the grifter who offered to grease his mitt.
“By the time we get to the stockyards that Dutchman’s joint I told you about will be jumping with stockyard suckers. The Dutchman will be cashing their paychecks.”
I said, “What if he serves you? How does the game go then for the mark I’ve caught?”
Blue chuckled and said, “Folks, there isn’t one chance in ten million that he’ll serve me. He hates Niggers so much that he might get a stroke when I walk in and start bulldozing him and your mark with that boodle I’m going to flash.”
When we got to the Westside it was nine-thirty A.M. Blue parked on Ashland Avenue. I got out and walked around the corner to the Dutchman’s saloon on West Pershing Road, a stone’s throw from the stockyards.
Just before I went in, I glanced at the saloon down the street from the Dutchman’s. If I caught a mark I’d have to lug him there for the smack play.
The joint was reeking of old sweat, brass spittoons and stale sawdust. It was all stag and loud with the profane horseplay of Dutchmen, Germans and Poles.
I sat between two Germans. One of them was drunk. I threw him out of my mind as a prospect. Blue had told me drunks were bad marks.
I watched the huge ruddy-faced Dutchman come down the long redwood bar toward me. He batted a wayward lock of straw-colored hair off his broad forehead with a beet-red, beefy paw.
He mopped the bar in front of me with a grease-streaked rag. He skinned his thin red lips back from a set of thousand-dollar choppers. His merry, bright blue eyes twinkled down at me. He had the kindest, friendliest face I’d seen since Grandma Annie.
He said, “You look thirsty, young friend. I bet you want Artel to get you a peppermint schnapps.”
I said, “Gee, Artel, you’re a mind reader. That’s just what I wanted.”
I sat there sipping the drink. I watched Artel serve the bar with a happy smile for everybody. I was beginning to think Blue was wrong about him. A nice happy guy like Artel just couldn’t hate anybody.
The German beside me ordered a glass of draught. I saw him pay for it from a well-filled poke.
I remembered what Blue had said about cutting into a sucker. “Strike up a conversation about current events. Then confide some bullshit, intimate and personal to artificially age the acquaintance. Turn on the charm so the mark likes you. Make him think he’s known you for years.” I smiled and said to the well-heeled mark, “Boy that was some fire yesterday at that dance hall down in Mississippi.”
He said, “Ya, but you should have seen de one over dere at de stockyards several years ago. Now dat vas a fire.”
I said, “A fire burned my folks to death and made an orphan of me when I was two. The sight of fire makes me sad.”
We sat there for about fifteen minutes getting acquainted. His name was Otto. He offered to buy me a drink. I told him I’d flip coins with him. We flipped. I let him win. We flipped the next one. I won.
I glanced at the door. Blue was peering through the glass. I pulled at my nose. Blue came in and stood at the bar beside me. He was rocking from side to side like a drunk. There wasn’t a sound in the joint.
The Dutchman leaped toward Blue. He was purple with rage and indignation.
He shouted, “Get out! Get out! No blacks allowed in here.”
Blue grinned at him and waved a wad of bills beneath the Dutchman’s nose.
Blue said, “You mean a rich, clean-cut Nigger like me can’t buy a drink in this funk box? Hell, I’ll give you odds that this is more money than you ever had in Holland. Shit man, wake up. You’re not in the old country. This is the wonderful land of the free and the brave.”
Everybody laughed except the Dutchman. Blue waved his bankroll under my nose and the mark’s.
He said, “I’m going to buy this building and turn this into a Nigger bar. I’m going to bar all you laughing hunkies.”
The Dutchman reached under the bar and brought out a baseball bat. Blue backed through the door. The jabber resumed. The Dutchman was his sweet, happy self again.
I said to the mark, “That Nigger had a lot of money, didn’t he?”
The mark said, “Artel is an old fool. Dot money vas green not black. I vish dis vas my place. I vould have gotten all dot drunk nigger’s money right across de bar.”
We sat there talking about stupid niggers we had met, for about ten minutes.
Fina
lly I said, “Otto, isn’t there some bar around here that has a dame or two?”
He said, “Dere’s one down de street. But dey let niggers come in. Most of de vimen down dere are black.”
I said, “What the hell, Otto, there’s nothing hotter than a nigger woman. I like you, Otto. Come on and show me the spot. We see something nice, I’ll buy us a piece of black ass. How about it?”
It was pitch verbatim what Blue had taught me. It worked like black magic. The mark’s eyes lit up like a lucky guy about to shove it into a virgin.
We went down the street. Blue was standing on the sidewalk in front of the other bar. He stepped in front of us.
He said, “Oh, whatta you know? It’s two of the white hecklers from down the street. I bet that now all you’ve got left are loud mouths and empty pockets. I know how it is for poor white people. Come on and have a drink on a rich Nigger, unless you think you’re too good to drink with me.
Blue turned his head away to cough.
I whispered to the mark, “Let’s teach that smart aleck nigger a lesson he’ll never forget. We’ll split what we take from him.”
Then I said to Blue, “We’re not broke, and we have nothing against your color. Tell you what, we’ll match to see who buys for the lucky one. The odd man wins. Fair enough?”
We stepped into a gangway next to the bar. We all flipped coins and smacked them to the backs of our hands. The mark’s coin was odd on tails. Blue and I held heads.
I said, “Otto wins. We buy the drinks for him. Let’s go inside the bar and keep our bargain.”
Blue said, “Pikers are always lucky for peanuts. Come on, I’ll pay for a measly drink.”
I winked at the mark and said, “What makes you think we’re pikers? We’re not afraid to bet even as much as ten dollars or more. Just make it light on yourself, boy.”
Blue said, “I take that bet. Let’s match for ten and see who’s lucky when it really counts.”
Blue coughed again.
I whispered into the mark’s ear, “Hold tails, he can’t win.”
We flipped again. Blue held tails. I won. I had heads. Blue and the mark gave me a sawbuck. Blue coughed. I slipped the mark’s sawbuck back to him. The mark grinned.
Blue said, “Goddamnit, I’m going to chill your shit now. Let’s flip for twenty.”
I said, “You can’t scare us. Can he, Otto?”
Blue turned his head.
I said to the mark, “Hold tails, he can’t win.”
I won again. They paid me. I slipped the mark’s twenty back to him. Blue snatched out his roll of bills.
He shouted, “All right, my nose is open. Let’s flip to a tap out. Can you white boys cover this money in my hand if you lose?”
Otto had two hundred and thirty dollars. I came up with two hundred. Blue counted out two hundred and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
Blue turned. I told the mark to hold tails. We flipped again. I won. They each gave me two hundred.
Blue cursed and walked away from us. I stepped deeper in the gangway. The mark followed.
I was just starting to count down into the mark’s palm when Blue came back and shouted, “Police! Police! You crooked sonuvabitches are splitting up my money. Police! Police!”
I said, “You’re wrong, boy. I won fair and square, and I’m keeping all of this for myself.”
I walked away from the mark to the sidewalk. I stuffed all the money into my pocket.
I said to Blue, “If I go East and this guy goes West. Will that prove we’re not partners?”
Blue said, “’Course it would. Any fool would know that if you go East and he goes West, you couldn’t be partners.”
Blue turned away to cough. I grabbed the mark’s shirt front and pulled him close.
I whispered, “I’ll go around the block and meet you at the Dutchman’s.”
Blue stood in the middle of the sidewalk watching us go our separate way. I went straight to the Caddie. Blue came shortly. We pulled away for the Southside.
Blue said, “Folks, you’re going to be a sweetheart of a grifter. You did everything right. How do you feel?”
I mumbled, “Like a guy that’s layed the most beautiful broad in the world. I feel just wonderful. And that’s the guaranteed truth.”
I took the wad of bills from my pocket and put them on the seat beside Blue. He fanned them apart.
He said, “You must be excited. Folks, you had a C-note of your money. A hundred of your flash was mine. The mark went for two bills. Keep two bills and you’ve got your fifty-fifty split of the score.”
I said, “You taught me every word, Blue. I’m still an amateur. You know, like an apprentice. I’m not demanding fifty percent.”
He said, “Folks, you’re my full partner. We’ll split a million bucks before we’re through. I’m going to teach you the rocks con and the drag before the year is out. Now, let’s go to Powers and have some lunch.”
I said, “Blue, how did the dolls look in that joint down the street from the Dutchman’s?”
He chuckled and said, “They were a bunch of old dogs.”
I said, “How old?”
He said, “Twenty-two, twenty-five.”
We left the car at a filling station on Forty-seventh Street and Michigan Avenue. Blue wanted an oil change and minor tune-up for the Caddie.
We walked down Forty-seventh Street. We were a block from the restaurant when I stopped in front of a pawnshop window. A big beautiful drum was in the window. Its chrome glittered in the sunlight.
I was gazing at it. I felt Blue tugging at my sleeve. I turned slowly and looked at him.
He said, “Can you drum?”
I said, “No, but I’d like to have that one. It’s beautiful. I think I’ll buy it.”
He said, “Folks, it takes a long time to become a musician and most of them are starving. I thought you were going to be a grifter.”
I said, “I wouldn’t want to play the drum. I’d just like to keep it. But I guess you’re right. What would I do with a drum? I don’t even paint anymore.”
We went into Powers and had lunch. Blue was quiet. It worried me. I wished that I hadn’t acted like a stupid kid about that drum in the window. I didn’t want Blue to get the idea I was just a young punk not really ready to play the con with him.
I said, “Blue, I wasn’t serious about buying that silly drum. I was just clowning around.”
He said, “Sure, Folks, I understand. Forget it.”
We had stepped from the restaurant to the sidewalk when a breathless little guy rushed up to Blue. There was a bloody patch of kinky hair glistening in the top of his head. He was excitedly waving his scrawny black arms. Sweat glued his white shirt to his skinny chest.
He blurted, “Oh, Blue! He tried to waste us. He ain’t human. Shorty’s gotta get outta Chicago. He showed while we was blowing the mark off at Sixty-third and Stony.
“He just grinned like a crazy hyena. Poor Memphis’ head is busted wide-open by the butt of his pistol. He even crushed the mark’s beak. He’s looking for me, Blue. I know it. Please lay a double saw on me so I can go back to Saint Louis. Please Blue. I’ll wire it back to you. I gotta get away from that crazy roller.”
Blue said, “Sure, Shorty, I’ll spring for the double saw. But who the hell is the roller?”
Shorty shouted, “I don’t know. He’s a brown-skin, speckled sonuvabitch—real lanky, with a funny walk like a broad. I know one thing, he’s the screwiest roller these eyes have saw.”
Blue gave him a twenty-dollar bill.
Blue said, “Shorty, you and the Memphis Kid had the worst kind of luck. That was Dot Murray. He’d swim across Lake Michigan in January to nail a grifter. That gash in your noggin looks bad. Here’s another saw buck. See a croaker, Shorty.”
Shorty was already on his way back to Saint Louis. He shouted over his shoulder, “Blue, thanks for the dough and advice. But Shorty’s going to give this sawbuck to a Saint Louis croaker.”
We w
atched Shorty turn into the el station. Blue said, “Folks, I’ll have to point out Dot to you as soon as possible.”
I said, “Why is he called Dot?”
Blue said, “He’s got a disorder in the pigment of his skin. Ten years ago he was smooth brownskin. Now he’s dotted with dirty yellow spots. We don’t worry about him. We’ll never let him catch us playing for a mark. Let’s go pick up the car.”
I said, “Blue, if we’re not going to work anymore today I think I’ll get a haircut across the street and walk around a little.”
He shrugged his wide shoulders and said, “No, we won’t work anymore today. If we hadn’t run into Sweeney the Snake, we’d play the stations this evening.
“We’ll start in the morning, early. Be careful, Folks. Don’t get foxed out of your bankroll. The con is made for everybody, you know.”
I went across the street to the barber shop. It was crowded with old guys arguing about the war in Europe and how soon before America would be in it.
One old guy cracked up the shop.
He said, “If Turkey were attacked in the rear, don’t you think Greece would help?”
I finally got a haircut. Forty-seventh Street was lousy with young, big-butt broads. But I was too wrapped up in thoughts of the past to chase any of them.
I walked east on Forty-seventh Street. I saw the Regal Theater at South Parkway and remembered the curvy little doll that caused me to miss waiting for Phala outside the cabaret that night.
I walked to Cottage Grove Avenue. I walked down Cottage Grove all the way to my old neighborhood at Thirty-ninth Street.
I stood and looked up at the shabby apartment building where Phala and I once lived. I thought about the pretty pink house I was living in. I felt like a millionaire as I watched slouched, familiar figures passing me on the sidewalk.
As I walked away toward South Parkway I glanced up at the window of our old apartment. I saw the lonely face of a little black kid staring down at me. He was about the age I was when I first lived there.