The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,11

invited him, I had no idea he was such a sore loser.”

“Hell, the matching was all his idea, anyway,” Jamison said.

“God, he really got riled up, didn’t he?”

“He’s a peculiar fellow,” Jamison said, shaking his head.

Parsons seemed to have a sudden idea. “Listen,” he said, “let’s have some fun with him.”

“What kind of fun?”

“Well, he’s a sore loser—worst I’ve ever seen.”

“Me, too,” Jamison said.

“He said he’s got three thousand dollars with him. Let’s take it away from him.”

“What?” Jamison said, suddenly righteously indignant.

“Not for keeps. We’ll take it away from him and then give it all back later.”

“Take it away? But I don’t understand.”

“We’ll change the matching rules when he comes back. We’ll make it odd man loses. All right, we’ll make sure that your coin and my coin always match. Nine times out of ten, he’ll be odd man. And loser.”

“How we going to do that?” Jamison asked, beginning to get interested in the idea of a little sport.

“Simple. Keep your coin on end so you can shove it down to either heads or tails. If I touch my nose with my finger, make your coin show heads. If I don’t touch it, show tails.”

“I see,” Jamison said, grinning.

“We’ll keep raising the stakes. We’ll clean him out, and then we’ll give him back his money. Okay?”

Jamison couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Boy,” he said, “he’s really going to blow his stack.”

“Until he knows it’s all a gag,” Parsons said. He patted Jamison on the back. “Here he comes. Now, let me handle this.”

“All right,” Jamison said, secretly beginning to enjoy himself.

O’Neill came back to the table and sat. He seemed angry as hell. “The second round come yet?” he asked.

“No,” Parsons said. “You know, Frank, it’s your attitude that makes you lose. I was just telling that to Elliot here.”

“Attitude, my ass,” O’Neill said. “I’m just unlucky.”

“I can prove it to you,” Parsons said. “Come on, let’s match a little more.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t going to be a drinking night,” O’Neill said suspiciously.

“We’ll match for a few bucks, all right?”

“I’ll lose,” O’Neill said.

“Why not give Charlie’s theory a chance?” Jamison put in.

“Sure,” Parsons said. “I’ve got a little money with me. Let’s see how fast you can take it away from me, using my theory.” He paused, then turned to Jamison. “You’ve got some money with you, haven’t you, Elliot?”

“About two hundred and fifty dollars,” Jamison said. “I don’t like to carry too much with me. You never know.”

“That’s wise,” Parsons said, nodding. “What do you say, Frank?”

“All right, all right, what’s your theory?”

“Just concentrate on winning, that’s all. Think with all your might. Just think, I’m going to win, I’m going to win, that’s all.”

“It won’t work, but I’m game. How much do we bet?”

“Let’s start with five,” Parsons said. “To make it quicker, we’ll do it this way. Odd man loses. He pays each of the other players five bucks. How does that sound?”

“Well, that sounds a little stee—” Jamison started.

“That sounds fine to me,” O’Neill said. Parsons winked at Jamison.

Jamison gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and then hastily said, “Yes, that sounds fine to me, too.”

They began matching.

With remarkable regularity, O’Neill kept losing. Then, perhaps because Parsons wanted to make it look good, Jamison began to lose a little, too. The men matched silently. Their table was in a corner of the place, protected from sight by a translucent glass wall. It is doubtful, anyway, that anyone would have stopped the men from their innocent coin-matching. They flipped, uncovered, and exchanged bills. In a short while, O’Neill had lost something like $400. Jamison had lost close to $200. Parsons winked at Jamison every now and then, just to let him know that everything was proceeding according to plan. O’Neill kept complaining to Jamison—who was losing along with him—about Parsons’s theory. “The only one that goddamn theory works for is him himself,” O’Neill said.

They kept matching.

Jamison did not lose as much now. O’Neill kept losing, and he got angrier with each flip of the coin. Finally, he looked at both men and said, “Say, what is this?”

“What’s what?” Parsons asked.

“I’ve dropped nearly six hundred dollars so far.” He turned to Jamison. “How much have you lost?”

Jamison did a little mental calculation. “Oh, about two hundred thirty-five, something like that.”

“And you?” O’Neill said to Parsons.

“I’m winning,” Parsons said.

O’Neill looked at his two companions with a long, steady gaze. “You wouldn’t be trying to fleece me by any chance, would you?” he asked.

“Fleece?” Parsons