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be paroled."

Shortly thereafter, and for reasons Abagnale has never attempted to fathom, he was paroled to Houston, Texas, with orders to report to a U.S. parole officer there within seventy-two hours of his arrival and, if possible, to find gainful employment within the same period of time.

Frank Abagnale quickly learned, as do most freed prisoners, that there is a post-prison penalty society inflicts upon its convicts. For some, this penalty is simply a social stigma, but for the majority such post-prison punishment comprises much more than just slurs and slights. The ex-convict seeking employment invariably finds his quest much more difficult than does the hard-core unemployed, even though he may possess a needed or wanted skill (often acquired in prison). The employed ex-convict is the first to lose his job during economic downturns necessitating worker layoffs. Too often, the very fact that he is an ex-convict is sufficient reason for firing.

Abagnale's post-release problems were compounded by the fact that the bureaucrat selected to supervise his parole was hostile and antipathetic. The parole officer bluntly apprised Abagnale of his feelings toward his ward.

"I didn't want you here, Abagnale," the hard-nosed official told him. "You were forced on me. I don't like con men, and I want you to know that before we even start our relationship... I don't think you'll last a month before you're headed back to the joint. Whatever, you had better understand this. Don't make a wrong move with me. I want to see you every week, and when you get a job, I'll be out to see you regularly. Mess up, and I'm sure you will, and I'll personally escort you back to prison."

Abagnale's first job was as a waiter, cook and managerial trainee in a pizza parlor operated by a fast-food chain. He did not inform his employer that he was an ex-convict when he applied for the job because he wasn't asked. The job was colorless, unexciting, and made even less appealing by the periodic visits of Abagnale's dour parole officer.

Although he was an exemplary worker, and one often entrusted with the banking of the firm's cash receipts, Abagnale was fired after six months when company officials, checking more closely into his background in preparation for naming him a manager of one of the chain's shops, learned he was a federal prison parolee. Abagnale within a week found employment as a grocery stocker with a supermarket chain, but again neglected to tell his employer that he was an ex-convict. After nine months, Abagnale was promoted to night manager of one of the firm's stores and top management officials began to pay personal attention to the well-groomed, handsome and personable young man who seemed so zealously dedicated to company affairs. Obviously he was an executive prospect, and the firm's directors commenced to prepare him as such. Abagnale's grooming as a grocery guru, however, abruptly ended when a security check disclosed his blighted past and he again was given the boot.

In ensuing months, the discouraging procedure became repetitively familiar to Abagnale, and he began to contemplate a return to his former illicit lifestyle, feeling now that he had a justifiable grudge against the establishment. Abagnale might actually have returned to his felonious career, as have so many ex-convicts frustrated by similar situations, save for two fortuitous circumstances. First, he was removed from the supervision of his antagonistic parole officer and placed in the hands of a more rational, unbiased steward. And second, Abagnale shortly thereafter took a lengthy and introspective look at himself, his situation and what the future might or might not hold for him.

"I was working as a movie projectionist at the time," Abagnale recalls today. "I was making good money, but there I was, five nights a week, sitting in this small room, with nothing to do, really, save to watch the same movie over and over again. I thought to myself that I was smarter than that, that I was ignoring and wasting real talents that I possessed."

Abagnale sought out his parole officer and broached a plan he had formulated in the lonely projection booth. "I think I have as much knowledge as any man alive concerning the mechanics of forgery, check swindling, counterfeiting and similar crimes," Abagnale told the officer. "I have often felt since I was released from prison that if I directed this knowledge into the right channels, I think I could help certain people a great deal. For instance, every time I go to the store and write a check, I see two or three mistakes made on the part of the clerk or cashier, mistakes that a bum check artist would take advantage of. I have concluded that it is simply a lack of training, and I know I can teach people who handle checks or cash vouchers how to protect themselves against fraud and theft."

With the blessings of his parole officer, Abagnale approached a suburban bank director, outlined what he had in mind and detailed his background as a master bilker of banks. "At the moment I have no slide presentations or anything," said Abagnale. "But I'd like to give a lecture to your employees for one hour after closing. If you think my lecture is worthless, you owe me nothing. If you think it is beneficial, you pay me $50 and make a couple of calls to friends you have in other banks to tell them what you think about my talk and what I'm doing."

His first appearance as a "white-collar crime specialist" led to another appearance at a different bank, and then to another and yet another. Within months Abagnale was in widespread demand by banks, hotels, airlines and other businesses.

Today, three years later, Frank Abagnale is one of the nation's most popular crime authorities, with offices in both Houston and Denver, a highly-trained staff, and gross revenues approaching $3 million. He still leads a life on the fly, constantly criss-crossing the nation to present seminars, give lectures or to appear on various television panels. Frank Abagnale leads a very satisfying life.

More importantly, he now realizes why he first embarked on a criminal voyage and why he is not now adrift on that dismal cruise.

"If I did not do what I do today-if I had stayed a pizza cook, a grocery executive or a movie projectionist-I might very well be back in prison today," Abagnale muses. "Why? Because there's no glamour, no excitement, no adventure and nothing to fulfill my ego in those vocations.

"What I do today, on the other hand, fulfills all my needs. I get up in front of thousands of people, and I know they're listening to what I say. That's an ego trip. I appear on dozens of television programs annually. To me, that's a glamorous life. It's an adventuresome life, because I'm constantly being challenged by white collar criminals who come up with new gimmicks to defraud clients-and I know they're out to put me down as much as they are to make a bundle.

"Actually, I haven't changed. All the needs that made me a criminal are still there. I have simply found a legal and socially acceptable way to fulfill those needs. I'm still a con artist. I'm just putting down a positive con these days, as opposed to the negative con I used in the past. I have simply redirected the talents I've always possessed. Today, if I walked into a crowded room and wanted to impress the people therein, I could impress them more by saying, 'I'm Frank Abagnale, the impostor,' than if I were to be the old Frank Abagnale, posing as a pilot, a doctor or whatever."

Frank Abagnale, in reality, is still a bumblebee personality, flying where he isn't supposed to fly at all, and making a pot of honey on the side.