The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,10
out a quarter. The drinks had come by this time, and the men sipped a little from their glasses. Parsons took a quarter from his pocket, and then Jamison took a quarter from his.
“Here’s the way we’ll work it,” O’Neill said. “We’ll all flip together. Odd man, the fellow who has a head when the other two have tails—or tails when the other two have heads—doesn’t pay. Then the other two flip to see who does pay. Okay?”
“Fair enough,” Parsons said.
“Okay, here we go,” O’Neill said. The three men flipped their coins and covered them. When they uncovered, Parsons and O’Neill were showing heads. Jamison was showing tails.
“Well, you’re out of it,” O’Neill said. “It’s between you and me now, Charlie.”
They flipped.
“How do we work this?” Parsons asked.
“You have to say whether we match or don’t match,” O’Neill said.
“I say we match.”
They uncovered the coins. Both men were showing tails.
“You lose,” Parsons said.
“I always do,” O’Neill said, and somehow—in spite of his earlier eagerness to pay for the drinks—he seemed miffed now that he actually had to pay for them. “I’m just plain unlucky,” he said. “Some fellows go to carnivals, throw a few baseballs at a stuffed monkey, come home winning a power lawn mower. They buy one ticket in a raffle, and they win the new Dodge convertible. Me, I buy six books of tickets, I get nothing. I ain’t never won anything in my whole life. I’m an unlucky son of a gun, all right.”
“Well,” Parsons said in a seeming attempt to cajole O’Neill, “I’ll pay for the next round.”
“Oh, no,” O’Neill said. “We’ll match for the next round.”
“We haven’t even finished this round,” Jamison said politely.
“Makes no never mind,” O’Neill said. “I’m gonna lose, anyway. Come on, let’s match.”
“You shouldn’t take that attitude,” Parsons said. “I believe that, in matching, or in cards, or in things like that, you can control your own luck. No, really, you can. It’s all in the mind. If you go into this thinking you’re going to lose, why, you will lose.”
“I’ll lose no matter what,” O’Neill said. “Come on, let’s match.”
The men flipped their coins.
Parsons showed heads.
O’Neill showed heads.
Jamison showed tails.
“You’re a real lucky fink,” O’Neill said, his irritation mounting. “You could jump into a tub of horseshit and come out smelling of lavender.”
“Well, I’m not usually lucky,” Jamison said apologetically. He exchanged a quick glance with Parsons, whose uplifted eyebrows clearly expressed the opinion that O’Neill was a strange duck, indeed.
“Come on, come on,” O’Neill said, “let’s get this over with. This time I’ll call.” He and Parsons flipped their coins and covered them. “We match,” O’Neill said.
Parsons uncovered heads.
O’Neill uncovered tails and said, “Son of a bitch! You see? I never win, never! Goddammit, let’s match for the next round.”
“We’re already a round ahead of ourselves,” Parsons said gently.
“You want me to pay for all the damn drinks, is that it?” O’Neill shouted.
“Well, no, no, that’s not it.”
“Why won’t you give me a chance to win back what I’ve lost?”
Parsons smiled gently and looked to Jamison for assistance.
Jamison cleared his throat. “You misunderstand, Frank,” he said genially. “We hadn’t planned on making this a big drinking night. As a matter of fact, I haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“Is three rounds of drinks a big drinking night?” O’Neill asked irritably. “I say we match for the third round. I insist we match for the third round.”
Parsons smiled weakly. “Frank, it’s really academic. We may not even get to the third round. Look, let me pay for the last two rounds, huh? This party was my idea, and I’m a little embarrassed—”
“I lost, and I’ll pay!” O’Neill said firmly. “Now, come on, let’s match for the third round.”
Parsons sighed. Jamison shrugged and caught Parsons’s eye. The men flipped their coins.
“Heads,” Jamison said.
“Tails,” Parsons said.
“Tails,” O’Neill said sourly. “This Jamison never loses, does he? By God, he never loses. Come on, it’s between you and me, Charlie.”
“It’s my turn to call, isn’t it?” Parsons asked.
“Yes, yes,” O’Neill said impatiently. “It’s your goddamn turn to call.” He flipped and covered his coin.
Parsons flipped, covered the coin, and said, “We won’t match this time.” He lifted his hand—tails.
O’Neill uncovered his coin. “Heads! I could have told you! I could have told you even before I looked at the damn thing. I never win! Never!” He rose angrily. “Where’s the men’s room? I’m going to the men’s room!”
He stalked away from the table, and Parsons watched him.
“I’d like to apologize,” Parsons said. “When I