I HAVE always had a sneaking admiration for the conman. I'm impressed at the way he can, through a combination of nerves of steel and self confidence, pull the wool over his, fellow man's eyes and get what" he wants money, promotion or to impress his peers; the way he can, through supreme self belief, hard neck and determination, inveigle himself into amazing situations.
Therefore, I enjoyed reading some months ago of the person who has been given the title of the World's Greatest Conman. This man was superhuman. He put James Bond in the pedestrian class. There was nothing he could not achieve. He passed $12.5 million in dud cheques on numerous banks and companies and took part in some hair raising scams. He also impersonated an international airline pilot, stockbroker, college professor and lawyer.
He is now a big, successful, legitimate businessman. In fact, Frank Abagnale is now the United State's foremost expert on fraud and document security. And they say crime doesn't pay? Last January he was in New Zealand to promote cheque and bank card security. He regaled reporters with his hair raising anecdotes. There was no end to the number of hilarious scrapes he got himself into and out of. He led a charmed life, but he was the sort of man who made his own luck.
Being a doctor
He described a brief period spent pretending to be a doctor. When renting an apartment he put down his occupation as "doctor", thinking no one would know any different and it would give himself a bit of gravitas. But unfortunately for him, he got talking to a doctor in the apartment block, who introduced him to another doctor.
"Then I find myself reading medical journals in case these guys ask me any questions. Next thing you know I'm at the hospital. I'm meeting all the staff. . . and then they say there is an opening we need to fill just temporarily for an administrative resident, you don't have to treat anyone. It was a challenge then . . . but I never really planned these things. I'd fall into them.
While Abagnale was big time, I have always been fascinated, by the stories of the little Dublin "gentleman" con man with the nickname Cool Sid. He operated around the city about 35 years ago, in a quieter and gentler era. When times got bad, and he was hungry, Cool used to put on his best suit and head out to one of the city's best restaurants.
He would order the most expensive food and wine on the menu, eat slowly and enjoy himself, chatting affably in a loud, confident voice to the waiters dancing around him. They just knew this man had real class and they expected to land a big tip. He had a good sense of humour and would also talk to the clientele at the nearby tables. Everyone just knew he was a damn nice man, a real gentleman.
They didn't know that Cool had played this act dozens of times in better restaurants than theirs. The trick was that a couple of minutes after ordering the dessert, Cool used to turn sideways, quietly take a matchbox out of his pocket and drop the biggest cockroach you ever did see into the trifle. Then he would jump to his feet, howling blue bloody murder. With quivering finger he would angrily point out the foreign body sliding around in his plate. The dumbfounded, trembling, head waiter would try to calm Cool and ask him not to make such a scene, terrified the other customers would never darken the door of the eatery again. Of course, he would then waive the enormous bill, feeling it was a small price to pay to mollify the gentleman.
Embarrassingly good
I have only once, thank God, been called on to play the part of con man. I surprised myself at succeeding so well, but I still cringe with embarrassment when I think of it. It was 30 years ago, over in Connemara. Myself and some friends had been out fishing. We got back late, so late in fact that the pub was closing. The publican was in a militant mood and was almost physically throwing out the customers. One of my friends had some local knowledge and believed there was only one way of getting a drink. He dreamt up a very clever ruse and told the publican that we were an RTE crew down from Dublin. We were supposedly travelling around the country looking for singing pubs and talented singers to put out in a programme in the autumn.
The publican who had a popular singing pub, fell for it hook, line and sinker (which is more than the fish had done earlier in the day). All of a sudden he was full of smiles and gave us a huge cead mile failte. It went like a dream. In fact, it went too well. He began giving us free drink and bringing in his singing waitresses. I had to stand there and conduct auditions, nodding wisely and congratulating the girls on theirs lovely voices. Meanwhile, my buddies had left me and were over at the bar, relaxed and having a great time. Why I should have been the one to carry off the scam I don't know, but I just seemed to be nudged or fall into it. It was one of the most embarrassing nights of my life. It was a very convoluted way of getting a drink. I really felt bad when he wouldn't even let us pay for our rounds. We wanted to pay, as we did not want to take drink under false pretenses, but we couldn't blow our cover at that stage.
Taken in
I must confess, I was once totally taken in by a con man. It wasn't anything serious; I get a good laugh out of it now. A few years ago I was driving from Wicklow to Dublin when I saw this guy on crutches bitching. I don't usually pick up people on the road, but I felt sorry for this poor guy. I needn't have. As soon as the car stopped, he flung the crutches into the back and jumped into the front seat beside me. He was quite chirpy. "It always works . . . ever since I got my hands on these auld crutches CIE hasn't got a penny out of me," he said cheerfully. He was delighted with his little scam. I could only laugh and congratulate him on his ingenuity. He deserved to get a lift.