Catch Me If You Can Page 0,5

the challenge that led me to put down my first scam. I needed money, all right. Anyone with a chronic case of the girl crazies needs all the financial assistance that's available. However, I really wasn't dwelling on my lack of funds when I stopped at a Mobil station one afternoon and spotted a large sign in front of the station's tire display racks, "put a set on your mobil card-we'll put the set on your car" the sign read. It was the first inkling I'd had that the Mobil card was good for more than gas or oil. I didn't need any tires-the ones on the Ford were practically new-but as I studied the sign I was suddenly possessed by a four-ply scheme. Hell, it might even work, I thought.

I got out and approached the attendant, who was also the owner of the station. We were casual acquaintances from the many pit stops I'd made at the station. It was not a busy gas stop. "I'd make more money holding up filling stations than running one," he'd once complained.

"How much would it cost me for a set of whitewalls?" I asked.

"For this car, $160, but you got a good set of treads," the man said.

He looked at me and I knew he sensed he was about to be propositioned. "Yeah, I don't really need any tires," I agreed. "But I got a bad case of the shorts. Tell you what I'll do. I'll buy a set of those tires and charge them on this card. Only I don't take the tires. You give me $100 instead. You've still got the tires, and when my dad pays Mobil for them, you get your cut. You're ahead to start with, and when you do sell the tires, the whole $160 goes into your pocket. What do you say? You'll make out like a dragon, man."

He studied me, and I could see the speculative greed in his eyes. 'What about your old man?" he asked cautiously.

I shrugged. 'He never looks at my car. I told him I needed some new tires and he told me to charge them."

He was still doubtful. "Lemme see your driver's license. This could be a stolen card," he said. I handed him my junior driver's license, which bore the same name as the card. "You're only fifteen? You look ten years older," the station owner said as he handed it back.

I smiled. "I got a lot of miles on me," I said.

He nodded. "I'll have to call into Mobil and get an approval-we have to do that on any big purchase," he said. "If I get an okay, we got a deal."

I rolled out of the station with five twenties in my wallet.

I was heady with happiness. Since I hadn't yet had my first taste of alcohol, I couldn't compare the feeling to a champagne high, say, but it was the most delightful sensation I'd ever experienced in the front seat of a car.

In fact, my cleverness overwhelmed me. If it worked once, why wouldn't it work twice? It did. It worked so many times in the next several weeks, I lost count. I can't remember how many sets of tires, how many batteries, how many other automobile accessories I bought with that charge card and then sold back for a fraction of value. I hit every Mobil station in the Bronx. Sometimes I'd just con the guy on the pumps into giving me $10 and sign a ticket for $20 worth of gas and oil. I wore that Mobil card thin with the scam.

I blew it all on the broads, naturally. At first I operated on the premise that Mobil was underwriting my pleasures, so what the hell? Then the first month's bill landed in the mailbox. The envelope was stuffed fuller than a Christmas goose with charge receipts. I looked at the total due and briefly contemplated entering the priesthood, for I realized Mobil expected Dad to pay the bill. It hadn't occurred to me that Dad would be the patsy in the game.

I threw the bill into the wastebasket. A second notice mailed two weeks later also went into the trash. I thought about facing up to Dad and confessing, but I didn't have the courage. I knew he'd find out, sooner or later, but I decided someone other than me would have to tell him.

Amazingly, I didn't pull up while awaiting a summit session between my father and Mobil. I continued to work