The Sting

As you know, “The Sting” is about con men, and they’re all cute and cuddly and funny. Heroic, too. The cops, on the other hand, are vicious and corrupt, the FBI is manipulative and conniving, and the murderously vindictive “mark” is a banker. But that doesn’t seem to matter, does it?

Why do we love movie criminals so much? Why is crime so entertaining? It’s not coincidental that the must-watch-the-whole-thing movies I just mentioned are all about crime. After all, I love “The Quiet Man” and “Horatio Hornblower” and “How Green Is My Valley” and a zillion others, and I talk constantly at work about their lighting and editing and shot choice, and I know them as well as a mother knows her children’s feet, but I can turn them off. Not easily, but I can do it. On the other hand, Jason Robards or Rod Steiger or Robert De Niro as Capone (or Paul Muny as the first Tony in “Scarface”)? I’m a dead man. So to speak. It’s almost impossible to tear ourselves away from good stories about criminals. We dig them. Worse, we support them. Worse still, we’re praying for them to win.

THIS IS IN MY HEAD FOR A REASON. I met a real con man last week, the day after I saw “The Sting.” Not on a screen, not at a party, not in a meeting. At my home; at my front door. I wasn’t doing research, either. He was trying to con me. They’re not cute or cuddly; they’re sociopaths with no feelings for others whatsoever, and they smell a score on you like vampires smell living blood. (Movies again: Strange.) And if they thought they could end your life with no threat to themselves and take everything you have, they would do it with no more thought than stepping on a cockroach.

And it was not entertaining. I was scared.

Let me be clear, I don’t mean a fast-talking salesman. This was not the Fuller Brush Man. (Remember them? A terrific company, actually, and everyone was always glad to see them.) This was criminal fraud, and I think the old movie word for it was “bunko.”

He was 23-cum-15. (I don’t know what that means, exactly, but I’ve always loved the “cum” thing in writing, and I think it’s close.) Well favored, I guess, but the looks were all wrong, like an alien who assumes human form and can’t quite make it all work (more movie stuff). The pitch was familiar, but no less effective for that because, to a con man, the words are just a vehicle for his tractor-beam will.

“Hi, I’m Keith from down the block. [Baloney.] Our school soccer team won the championship, and we’re representing the United States in France. Isn’t that great?” (Even if it’d been on the level, he lost me at “France,” but never mind that now.)

He flashed a big smile (alien again, and chilling) and stuck his hand out, and before I could think straight we were shaking. I disengaged and every instinct said, “Close the door . . .” but he quickly spoke again.

“We’re selling magazines, but my mother told me people have enough magazines, you know what I mean? And even though it’s officially this big catalogue sale from a company that works a lot with schools and teams like us . . .”

He grinned again and gestured with a pamphlet in his left hand, open, but hard to see, and my eye was fooled and glanced at it, just like with a good magician. It could have been tractor parts for all I know. Then he held up a laminated card in the other hand for a better look, and although it was a list of real magazine titles (familiar ones, like Parenting and Sports Illustrated), the paper inside the plastic was crumpled and yellow, like a Civil War letter, obviously used many times by many others over many years, the printing was very poor, fifth or sixth generation on a ’70a Xerox and–the creepiest part–Off kilter. At an angle. Poorly done. Clearly wrong.

But the trick for these guys is to keep going very fast and to steamroll their will over the part of your soul that’s whispering, “None of this is right.” That’s just what he did.

“The uniforms and plane tickets cost a lot, I guess you know that and, as I said, my mom told me not to bother the neighbors at this time of night. (I could hear the kids playing down the hall.) So, instead, I’ll be your personal slave. That’s pretty good, huh? Heck, I’d like that to . . .”

“What?” I said angrily. “Personal slave? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t leave the slightest beat. “Anything you want it to mean, sir, chores around the yard, the house, the car, anything at all.” I could have sworn he looked at me more directly on that last one. Maybe it was just to keep me off-balance, but I just wanted to get away from him even more.

“Listen, it’s a bad time . . . family time . . . I have to go . . .” But he didn’t flinch. They never do. They want your money, and that’s the only win-lose of the whole thing, so they keep on you like a panther, talking, staying engaged, biting deeper.

“I know what you mean, and it’s no problem. I’ll fill everything out and get it back to you, and just take the money with me so I can get it to my teacher. She said it has to be in by tomorrow, and you know how teachers are. They mean well, I guess, but they sure do need that money now. Could you get it for me?”

“No . . . No, thanks . . . I don’t need . . .”

(Not letting go. Pushing. Turning it up.) “Oh, come on, don’t you want to help? It won’t take a second to give it to me, you must have it on you right now. Right on you. Come on, huh? I know it’s a bother, but then I’ll be gone. Most people get thirty or forty dollars worth, but I can give you a good deal for twenty. How about a twenty?”

I tried to smile and started to close the door. “Please,” I mumbled.

And now his anger popped through. “Don’t close the door. Come on. Give me something. Don’t close the door.”

“It’s a bad time now. I can’t . . .”

“How about if I come back on the weekend. Would that be okay?”

“I have to go. Thanks. Good luck. Please.”

I closed it, locked it, and listened. Somewhere in the house the kids laughed.

I turned and my wife was looking at me from down the hall. “Why didn’t you just tell him to get lost? It’s a scam. Sometimes they work in teams with a big guy who just stands there to shake you up.”

“I was scared. I didn’t want to call him on it. At least it’s over.”

BUT IT WASN’T. He came back the next night. Same knock. I knew it was him. This time I didn’t open the door. “Yeah?”

“Hi, Mr. Miller, it’s Keith.” (I hadn’t given him my name.)

“Keith, I don’t want to be part of this, okay? Just move on. Please.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Miller, don’t go. I’ve got some good news. I heard you’re an artist. I’m an artist, too. Isn’t that great?” (Oh, good, something different and bigger.)

“Keith, I’m in the middle of six things.”

“Wait. Hold on. I need some help on something. I have a question to ask you. It’s important. One question, all right?”

“Keith, please. Please.”

“Just one question. Come on. Open the door.”

I didn’t answer or move. Or breath. I could imagine him standing out there, glaring at the door, not smiling anymore. After a beat, I heard footsteps, a car door, and an engine roaring away quickly. Very quickly. They work in teams, my wife said.

A FRIEND OF MINE is a very successful writer of crime novels–terrific books–and he was telling me how he has dinner regularly with these Mafia guys in New York, and the next time I was in town I should join them, and it’s all guys, and everybody drinks a lot, and their stories are unbelievably funny, and they go to all these different places, and stay out late, and I had to see the way people reacted when you walk in with them. And I said, “Real Mafia? No kidding?” And he said, “Oh, yeah. Big time.” And I said, “You mean, killers?” And he said, “Well . . . you know.”

But I don’t know. Could I do that? Aren’t they, then, bad guys? What would I be if I laughed with them? What had they just done that morning, or the day before? Should I not think of that? How can I? Would it be fun? Would I feel cool? Or scared? Guilty? Wrong?

At least Keith didn’t get me. Not this time. There was another time.

I was drunk, long after the last show, and the sun was coming up, and my friends and I were talking shop, and life was as young as Manhattan, and a guy came up and started speaking quickly, and I remember thinking, “Where in the world did he just come from?” And he spoke very fast, but I heard every word so clearly, he was very focused . . .

. . . and he lost his wallet and needed seven dollars for the train ride home (Where was that again?) or was it fifteen, and he knew he was imposing and please, write down where he can send it back to me, and he’ll mail it the second he gets home to (What?) and I would be doing a blessing.

I got angry. “What do I look like, an idiot? Get the hell out of here.” So he left, and we kept walking, and the sky was dark blue, and I looked up and down Madison, and it was empty, dawn, prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

The guy was gone a long time, it seemed, but it was really only seconds, and suddenly he was back, talking, repeating the pitch. I got even angrier and cocked my fist, and he left again, and my friends and I continued on.

Then he was back again, and again, and again until, of course, I gave him his money. More.

Stupid? Yes, but when a con man really gets into your soul, something astonishing happens.

I BELIEVED HIM. Eventually, I believed him. The fourth, or the eighth, or the fifteenth time, I really, truly believed he needed money for the train home and was going to mail it to me the second he got there. That’s how good these guys can be. At that second I could’ve sworn he was going to send me back the money.

He didn’t. Big surprise, huh? I can still see him looking at me, talking, talking, talking, never stopping, but I didn’t know then how cold he and his brethren are inside, like the devil himself. That’s the thing about the devil, you know. I don’t think he’s hot at all. I think he’s cold.

Small time stuff? I guess. For now. They probably all move on, don’t you think? Eventually, no amount is enough, and no crime is inconceivable. I don’t think very many of them ever think, “Maybe this isn’t for me, and it’s better to get a job.” No, they’re in, and the only solace is if they can get you in, too, even for a moment. Crime is not funny.

Of course, the next time “Scarface” comes on, I guess I’ll be watching ’til the end again.

Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.