The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,21
also tell you that my indoor activities are not confined to playing records alone.
(She stopped here, wondering if she had said too much, wondering if she sounded too bold. Would he understand what she meant? A widower couldn’t possibly want a girl with absolutely no experience! Still…)
I do a lot of other things indoors. Like cooking. And other things. I’m a good cook. I can make potatoes forty-two different ways. I’m not exaggerating, and my specialty is Southern fried chicken, though I have never been down South. My ambition is to travel around the United States someday. I half think that’s why I’ve been saving my money so religiously.
Oh…religion.
I’m Protestant.
I hope you’re Protestant, too, but it really doesn’t matter that much. I hope you’re white, too, because I am and that would matter to me—not that I’m prejudiced or anything. Honestly, I’m not. But I’m too mature to be defiant, and I don’t feel like battling the good fight for democracy, not at this late stage of the game. I hope you understand this isn’t bigotry. It’s caution, it’s fear, it’s wanting to belong, it’s whatever you choose to call it. But it’s not bigotry.
I ride a little, usually in the Spring and in the Fall. I like the outdoors, though I’m not a very good athlete. I swim pretty well. I have a fast crawl. I was once a swimming counselor at a children’s camp, and I learned to dislike children that Summer. Of course, I’ve never had any of my own so I wouldn’t know. I imagine it’s different with your own. You said you are a widower. Do you have any children?
So far, you are just a post office box number, and here I’ve told you almost everything I could think of about myself. I like movies. John Wayne is my favorite. He’s not very good-looking, but there is a manliness about him, and I think that’s very important.
Well, I suppose that’s it.
I hope you’ll answer this letter. I’ll send you a picture if you like after I hear from you again. I say “again,” because I feel by reading your ad I’ve already heard from you once. And I honestly feel I did “hear” you, if you know what I mean.
Sincerely,
PRISCILLA AMES
41 La Mesa Street
Phoenix, Arizona
Priscilla Ames read her letter over. It seemed honest and sincere to her. She had no desire to make herself sound more attractive than she really was. Why start out with a bunch of lies and then get tangled up in them later? No, this was the best way.
Priscilla Ames folded the letter—which ran to some six pages— and then put it into the envelope. She copied the address from the magazine onto the face of the envelope, sealed the envelope, and then went out to mail it.
Priscilla Ames didn’t know what she was asking for.
It’s the little things in life that get you down.
The big problems are the easy ones to solve. There’s a lot at stake with the big problems. It’s the little ones that are the tough bastards. Should I shave tonight for the big date with Buxom Blonde, or should I wait until tomorrow morning for the big conference with Amalgamated Aluminum? God, a man can go nuts!
The 87th’s big problem was the floater. It’s not often you get a floater.
The 87th’s little problem was the con man.
It was the con man who was driving Detective Arthur Brown nuts. Brown didn’t like to be conned, and he didn’t like other people to be conned, either. The man—or men, more accurately— who were fleecing honest citizens of Brown’s fair city rankled him. They invaded his sleep. They dulled his appetite. They were even ruining his sex life. He was surly and out of sorts, more impatient than ever, scowling, snapping, a very difficult man to work with. The men who worked with him, being kindly, considerate, thoughtful bulls, did everything in their power to make his working day even more difficult. A moment did not go by but what one or another of the 87th’s bulls would make some passing crack to Brown about the difficulties he was experiencing with the con man.
“Catch him yet, Artie?” they would ask.
“Hey, some guy conned my grandmother out of her false teeth yesterday,” they would say. “Think it’s your buzzard, Brown?”
Brown took all the patter and all the jive with enviable discourteousness, admirable lack of self-control, and remarkable short temper. His usual answer was short and to the point and consisted