The Grifters

Many of them were open, but they were not the right kind. They would have only the West Coast beers, which, to Roy's way of thinking, were undrinkable. None of them, certainly, would have a good ale.

Nearing San Diego, he drove up Mission Valley for a mile or so; then, swinging up a long hill, he entered Mission Hills. There, after some thirty minutes of wandering about, he found what he was looking for. It wasn't a fancy place at all; not one of those glossy cocktail lounges where drinks were secondary to atmosphere. Just a good solidlooking bar, with an air that immediately inspired confidence.

The proprietor was counting cash into his register when Roy entered. A graying, wiry-looking man, with a tanned smile-wrinkled face, he nodded a greeting in the back-bar mirror. 'Yes, sir, what'll it be?'

Roy put a name to it, and the proprietor said that certainly he had good ale: if ale wasn't good it was slop. 'Give you imported or Ballantine's.' Roy chose Ballantine's, and the proprietor was pleased at his gratified reaction.

'Good, huh? Y'know, I think I'll just have one myself.'

Roy took an immediate liking to the guy, and the feeling was reciprocated. He liked the look of this place, its unassuming honesty and decency; the quiet pride of its owner in being its owner.

Within ten minutes they were on a first-name basis. Roy was explaining his presence in town, using his holidaying as an excuse for off-hour drinking. Bert- the proprietor-revealed that he also shunned the pre-noon drink; but he was going on vacation tomorrow, so what was the harm, anyway?

Two men came in, downed a double-shot each, and hurried out again. Bert looked after them with a touch of sadness, and came back to Roy. That was no way to drink, he said. Occasionally, even the best of men needed a drink or two in the morning, but they shouldn't drink it that way.

As he left to wait on another customer, he brushed against a back-bar display stand of salted nuts, moving it slightly out of its original position. And staring absently in that direction, Roy saw something that made him frown. He stood up a little from his stool for another look, making sure of what he had seen. He sat down again, puzzled and troubled.

A punchboard! A punchboard in a place like this! Bert was no fool, either in the con or the everyday sense, but a punchboard was strictly a fool's item.

Back at the time Roy was just starting out, there were still a few teams working the boards, one man planting them, the other knocking them over. But he hadn't seen any in years. Everyone had tipped long ago, and trying to plant a board now was the equivalent of asking for a busted jaw.

Of course, some small merchants and barkeeps still bought boards on their own, punching out the winning numbers at the start and thus giving the suckers no chance at all. But Bert wouldn't do that. Bert

Roy laughed wryly to himself, took a foamy sip of the ale. What was this, anyway? Was he, Roy Dillon, actually concerned about the honesty or dishonesty of a barkeep or the possibility that he might be swindled?

Another customer had come in, a khaki-clad workman, and Bert was serving him a coke. Coming back down the bar with two fresh bottles of ale, he refilled their glasses. And Roy allowed himself to 'notice' the board.

'Oh, that thing.' The proprietor retrieved it from the back-bar and laid it in front of him. 'Some fellow walked out and left it here three or four months ago. Didn't notice it until after he was gone. I was going to throw it away, but I get a customer now and then who wants to try his luck. So…' He paused tentatively. 'Want to have a try? Chances run from a cent to a dollar.'

'Well…' Roy looked down at the board.

Affixed to the top were five gold-colored imitation coins, representing cash prizes of five to one hundred dollars. Under each of them a number was printed. To win, one had only to punch out a corresponding number or numbers from the thousands on the board.

None of the winners had been punched out. Bert, obviously, was as honest as he looked.

'Well,' said Roy, picking up the little metal key which dangled from the board, 'what can I lose?'

He punched a few numbers, laying them out for Bert's inspection. On his sixth punch, he hit the fivedollar prize, and the proprietor smilingly laid the money on the counter. Roy let it lay, again poised the key over the board.

He couldn't tell Bert that this was a chump's gimmick. To do so would reveal knowledge that no honest man should have. Most certainly, and even though someone else was bound to do it, he couldn't take the man himself. The grift just wasn't for him today-or so he rationalized. There just wasn't enough at stake.

If he knocked off every prize on the board, the take would be under two hundred dollars. And naturally he'd never get away with knocking them all off. The pros of the racket had always gone for the big one and left the others alone. He, however, had already hit the five, so…

He punched out the ten-dollar number. Still smiling, pleased rather than disconcerted, Bert again laid money on the counter. Roy brought the key up for another punch.

This was the way to do it, he'd decided. The way to get the board out of circulation. One more prize-the twenty-five-and he'd point out that something must be screwy about the board. Bert would be obliged to get rid of it. And he, of course, would refuse to accept his winnings.

He punched out the third 'lucky' number. Properly startled, he cleared his throat for the tip-off. But Bert, his smile slightly stiffened now, had turned to glance at the coke customer.

'Yes, sir?' he said. 'Something else?'

'Yes, sir,' the man said, his voice grimly light. 'Yes, sir, there's something else, all right. You got a federal gambling-tax stamp?'

'Huh! What-'

'Don't have one, huh? Well, I'll tell you something else you don't have; won't have it long, anyway. Your liquor license.'

'B-but-' Bert had paled under his tan. California liquor licenses were worth a small fortune. 'B-but you can't do that! We were just- '

'Tell it to the state and Federal boys. I'm local.' He flipped open a leather credential-case; nodded coldly at Roy. 'You're pretty stupid, mister. No one but a stupe would knock a chump off for three balls in a row.'

Roy looked at him evenly. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said. 'And I don't like your language.'

'On your feet! I'm arresting you for bunco!'

'You're making a mistake, officer. I'm a salesman, and I-'

'You giving me a hard time? Huh? Hah? Why, you grifting son-of-a-bitch-!'

He grabbed Roy by the lapels, yanked him furiously to his feet and slammed him up against the wall.

19

First, there was the search; the turning out of pockets, the probing and slapping of garments, the hand brought up on either side of the testicles. Then came the questions, the demanded answers that were immediately labeled lies.

'Your right name, goddamn you! Never mind them phony credentials! All you hustlers got 'em!'

'That is my right name. I live in Los Angeles, and I've worked for the same company for four years-'

'Stop lying! Who's working the boards with you? How many other places you pulled this gimmick?'

'My health has been bad. I came down to La Jolla last night-a friend and I-on a