Fool's Eye Page 4

  I didn’t answer.

  He smiled. “Right. So, I have a better question for you. How would you like to make two to three thousand dollars a week, sometimes more depending on the mark?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, all you have to do is play your part and be willing to learn. You are willing to learn, right?”

  The money sounded good, but Mr. Fontanne wasn’t telling me what the deal was. I started getting impatient, but I didn’t want to show it, though. So, I sipped my tea and waited for him to continue. Malik stayed silent the entire time Mr. Fontanne spoke. It was like Malik had some unspoken respect for Mr. Fontanne that I didn’t understand.

  As I waited on Mr. Fontanne to talk, he awaited my answer. I gave in. “Sure, I’m willing. But, what will I learn?”

  “People, Ms. Linda. You will learn people. To get a person to just hand you over their hard-earned money, you must gain their trust.”

  “How do you get somebody to trust you, if they don’t know you?”

  “You have to learn what makes them tick, that’s how. I’ve been in this game for over fifty years, and I know just about everything there is to know about men and their vices. What makes them vulnerable. If you stick around, Ms. Linda, so will you.”

  Minutes later, the waiter came with our food. While we ate, Mr. Fontanne ran down the con for me.

  He asked me, “Do you know how much college students are willing to pay for mid-term or final exams?”

  “Why? Do you have access to college exams?” I questioned.

  “Maybe, but that’s not the point. College kids would pay just about anything to make sure they pass a mid-term or a final. They don’t care how they get it. They just want to pass.”

  “So what do you do? Sell fake answers to exams? I don’t think I’m with that. We could get arrested for that. I’m not trying to go to jail.” I must have said it a little too loud because Mr. Fontanne waved at me to keep my voice down.

  “Listen, we’re not going to sell them anything, but they think we will. What we need for you to do is rope the marks in. Malik will take care of the rest.”

  “I don’t get it. What is it that you want me to do? How am I supposed to rope him in? And what the hell is 'roping him' even mean anyway?”

  While I was losing my cool, Mr. Fontanne kept his composer.

  “Ms. Linda,” he said. “I will teach you all you need to know. You just have to say you’re ready to learn.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s time for me to go. Mr. Fontanne, it was… I can’t say it was nice to meet you. Malik, do me a favor and never talk to me again.”

  When I got up to leave, Malik grabbed me by my arm. “Please, Linda, wait a minute. I promise you everything will work out. Just hold up and let him finish.”

  “Let go of my arm! Don’t ever touch me!”

  “Okay, sorry. But, stop acting like a diva and just listen for a minute.”

  “First of all, I’m not acting like a diva. I’ve sat here and listened to everything Mr. Fontanne said and to be honest, he ain’t said shit! Now, I’ve got some money to make. If you gentlemen don’t mind.”

  Mr. Fontanne finally spoke up. “How much money do you think you could make today peddling those fake watches? One hundred…two hundred dollars? Here.”

  He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a substantial amount of cash held, together by a gold money clip.

  “Here’s four hundred. Take this money for your services today,” he said.

  I quickly sat back down and leaned forward, and in a sharp whisper, I said. “My services? Look, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but I’m not for sale! You nasty old freak!”

  Mr. Fontanne laughed. “I suppose that came out the wrong way. What I meant to say was, I’ll pay you to learn the right way to con. If after today, you want to learn more, I will teach you. But, I won’t pay you. You’ll learn for free.”

  A skeptical thought escaped through my voice. “So you want to pay me to learn how to con people? Seriously, Mr. Fontanne, what’s your angle? What do you get out of this?”

  “Besides being known as the man who groomed the world’s two best con artists? Money, Ms. Linda! Together, we will all make lots of money. Now, enough talking. The day is running short, and we have money to make. So, are you planning to take the money and learn from the best, or are you going to walk away and keep peddling your watches?”

  Mr. Fontanne placed the money on the table. I looked at it. The only reason I was hesitant was because I didn’t want them to try to get me alone and turn me into a NYPD missing person’s case. For some reason, I felt he was sincere. I looked up at Malik and quickly removed the money from the table. If this was on the up and up, there was no way I was going to turn the money down. Malik stood there, smiling like a damn sneaky hyena the whole time.

  “Is he serious?” I asked Malik. I turned my attention to Mr. Fontanne. “Are you serious?”

  “Very.” He was about to touch the money, but it was already gone. “I see you have quick hands, as well. Since you took the money, I assume that’s a yes. If you don’t mind, I have a lot of things to teach you before Monday. Shall we?”

  Mr. Fontanne had a studio apartment behind the diner. It was so small that I was surprised all of us could fit in there. His place looked like the middle stage of a hoarder. There were magazines all over the place from Men’s Health, GQ, and Business Weekly along with countless stacks of newspapers throughout the cramped apartment. The place only had four pieces of furniture. In the living room/bedroom area, there was a beige couch that I presumed to be a foldout bed. Ten feet away from the couch, a series of magazines occupied an old, round kitchen table with two chairs filled with dozens of books on how to get rich quick.

  Mr. Fontanne cleaned off one of the chairs and offered it to me. “Have a seat please.”

  I took off my backpack and sat down. “Thanks.”

  “Please get up. You must sit like a lady. You don’t plop your body down like it’s a sack of potatoes. You ease into the seat. It gives a man time to observe the curves in your elegantly shaped body. Try doing it like this.”

  Mr. Fontanne demonstrated how to sit down. He placed his bottom in the chair better than I’ve ever seen any woman do before. He got back up and told me to try again. This time, I sat down just like he did. I couldn’t help but to laugh a little, because this was the second time I noticed feminine tendencies in him.

  “Perfect,” he said. “There is hope for you yet. Malik, please go and check on Big Mike. Make sure he didn’t scare all the marks away. It’s getting late, and I have a lot of work to do with Ms. Linda.”

  “Okay, Ace. Have fun, Linda.” He gave me two thumbs up and left me to be tortured by Marco “The Ace” Fontanne.

  When Malik exited the room, Mr. Fontanne said, “Okay, Ms. Linda, the first thing you need to understand is that there are rules to this business. It's like any other organization.”

  “Rules? What kind of rules?”

  “The kind of rules that will keep you sharp and on your game. The first rule is always be clean and tidy.”

  “It seems to me like you need to follow your own rules,” I stated, looking around his apartment.

  “Why do you say that? Does it make you a little uneasy being in here, somewhat uncomfortable?”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “Don’t say yeah. Say yes. If you want to con someone, you have to show that you respect them. Saying yeah is not going to do it. Use polite words like 'yes,' 'thank you,' and 'you’re welcome.' Refrain from using slang and curse words. It will show that your vocabulary is not limited. Do you understand?”

  “Yea––I mean, yes, I do.”

  “Good. Let’s clean up this mess so we can continue. Please go under the sink and grab those garbage bags Malik left for us.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged my shoulders and went to get the bags. If this was the way he wanted to spend his four hundred dollars, it was fine by me.

/>   I handed him some of the bags, and he instructed me to clean the kitchen area. Meanwhile, he covered the rest of the place. Mr. Fontanne told me to put the books in the corner and the magazines in the bags. When we finished cleaning up, the apartment actually looked more spacious.

  “Now, come sit with me and let’s talk,” he said.

  Happy to sit after moving all those magazines, I plopped down on the couch.

  “No, Ms. Linda! Even if you’re tired, you must still remain a lady. Now, sit like I taught you. Try it again.”

  I slowly got up, using the assistance of the armrest.

  “Ms. Linda, would you have a seat, please?”

  Just so I didn’t have to hear his mouth again, I sat like he asked. I even said thank you.

  “You’re very welcome, Ms. Linda. Now, let’s begin. One of the most important things you must learn to be a great con artist is that you must be a great listener. Always pay attention to what your mark says. Never interrupt. Some marks will tell you everything about them, if you let them talk long enough. Another important tool is to know politics. But, never bring it up first. Remember, you want the mark to like you. So, if he's a Republican, you’re Republican. Get it?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Good, good. Now this is a trick you will not have a problem with; hinting sexual attraction without being explicit. A man’s greed works in a lot of different ways. If he thinks he can receive more than money on a con, he will give it a go. That will help you, because it will keep them off balance. But, beware. If you do have intercourse with one of them, it just might affect the way the con plays out. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes, be a tease.”

  “Exactly! Now, let me ask you, what religion are you?”

  “I was raised in a Baptist church. So, I guess Baptist.”

  “No, you’re not! Whatever your mark’s religion is, that’s what you are. You need to learn about all the different religions and cultures you can. What we are doing is putting on a show for the marks. You want the mark to feel so comfortable being around you that when the sting hits, you’re the last person they think will double-cross them.”

  “The sting?”

  “Yes. That's what they will feel when we part them from their money.”

  I laughed. I liked that definition.

  “Oh, so you do laugh? Good. You will need to practice not having that serious look you own. Also, never look bored. Always show interest in what the mark is talking about. They love control, so you have to make the mark think they’re controlling the play. When in reality, you’re the real puppet master. And never, I mean never, get drunk or mess with drugs when you’re playing for a mark. It will cloud your judgment. You may lose focus on the goal at hand.”

  “I don’t drink or do drugs. That’s not my thing.”

  “Good, then that’s something we won’t have to worry about. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”

  “Yes, I do. It makes so much sense. Everything you’ve told me seems so simple to understand. It feels like common sense.”

  “Okay, then explain everything to me starting from the top.”

  With a certain amount of resentment, I did. I ended up going over all of Mr. Fontanne's rules for two days straight. I didn’t leave his apartment until late that Saturday night and returned early the next morning to start all over again. We studied his rules so much that by Sunday night, I thought I could teach them to someone myself. I felt like I was coming into my true skin.

  Chapter 3

  New York City. The land of opportunity. The only place in America where a nobody could become somebody in the blink of an eye. That’s why people come here, especially college students. They leave whatever small town or city they’re from to find the key to success that New York holds. While the toughest can reach for it, only the truly elite can actually obtain it.

  On Monday, Mr. Fontanne sent me to NYU for a short con. He said I needed to put the skills I learned to the test. NYU’s library is unlike any other library, with its large infrastructure, impeccable design, and an endless catalog of law and academic books but like every other large collegiate library, you need an ID to gain entrance. Mr. Fontanne just so happened to have one available for me. It even had my picture on it.

  I asked how he got a copy of one of my pictures. He laughed. “You kids put your information all over the internet and don’t think anybody can touch it? Maybe you should think about that the next time you update your status on Facebook or post a Twit-pic.”

  I was still a little nervous when I stepped in the building. I showed my ID to the guard posted by the entrance. He glanced at it before returning his attention to The New York Post. I glanced at the article he was reading. It was about the fifteen people who got killed on a charter bus in the Bronx while leaving a casino. I read about it this morning on the bus coming over here. I’ve never been the type to keep up with current events, before Mr. Fontanne told me that knowing what’s going on in the world is a must in our line of work. It’s also great for small talk.

  I pointed at his article as I walked past the guard. “Sad, right?”

  The guard replied sadly, “I pray for their souls.”

  I walked to the back of the library to a table that sat at least fourteen people, but today only two were there. Find the one we can profit off of, Mr. Fontanne had instructed me.

  Let’s see. At least one thing was in my favor. Both of them were guys. Another thing was that it was easy to figure out which one was a better candidate for my “test study”. He was the one who seemed really worried about the material he was studying. His sandy blonde hair was untamed. He had on an NYU t-shirt that seemed to have kept him company for the last couple of days. The way the guy was biting his pencil made me believe it had been his breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past week. He was a thin kid who looked like he suffered from malnutrition and insomnia. He had bags under his eyes the size of grapes.

  The other guy looked calmer. He slowly ran his pencil down his book and used his eraser to turn the pages. His hair was perfectly combed to the back, and his gray NYU shirt looked like he had just gotten it out of the cleaners. He was most likely one of those lucky trust fund kids who were born with money and brains. His neck must have been burning, because he looked up at me while I was casing him.

  He threw me one of those frat boy smiles and gave me a ‘how you doing’ nod. I gave him a soft smile back and adjusted my attention to the nervous wreck.

  I fit the image of a college student, as well. I had on a NYC sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. My hair was in a bun. I held an accounting book close to my chest. There was a seat separating the two guys. I sat down between them, but moved my chair closer to the one who had more potential.

  Since Mr. Fontanne had taught me to introduce myself, while I was sitting down, I said, “Statistics, huh? I hated that class.”

  Annoyed, my potential mark looked up from his notes. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re studying for the mid-terms in Statistics, right? I dreaded that class, but I’m happy I got an A.”

  His eyes were now wide open. “Who was your teacher?”

  I quickly glanced at his notes. At the top of one of his papers, I saw a drawing of a gun. The name “Guzman” was next to it with blood dripping from the bottom.

  I said, “Guzman. What a real bitch, too. Luckily, I passed that class with flying colors.”

  I didn’t know if it was a man or woman teacher, so I kept my comments neutral.

  “I have her this year. And yeah, she is a bitch. I swear I go to her class and leave more confused than when I enter. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t pass this class. My dad told me if I get one more F, he’s going to cut me off. You don’t tutor, do you?”

  It never would have occurred to me how fast marks would set themselves up. You ask the right questions or fill in the right voids, and you could get anything out of them. Still, this had to be played close, bec
ause gaining a mark’s confidence was an ongoing performance. Luckily for me, this mark was transparent, and I allowed him to play himself.

  “Is it that bad?” I asked.

  “Worse,” he replied, while pulling on his uncombed hair.

  “Damn, that sucks.”

  I opened up the accounting book and took out the folded paper I had in it. I then looked over at the frat boy who was trying to make love with me with bedroom eyes.

  He whispered to me, “What’s your name?”

  “Not interested,” I whispered back.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  However, the smile I gave him told him something completely different. If this had been another time, he would have known my name and probably my number. Today, I was there to work.