Washington Confidential 36 – Mortimer · Library Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Washington Confidential 36Part 4 · INSIDE STUFF
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Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Washington Confidential 36
Part 4 · INSIDE STUFF
MortimerEnglish
The sharpie who got tired of selling the Brooklyn Bridge moved into the District and now sells the Washington Monument.
Suckers aren’t born at the rate of one a minute, Washington never does anything on time; but the Union Station and the airfield pour them out day and night. And God made them marks. For they are either simpletons with cow-dung on their boots or they are the conman’s dream, the lunk with larceny in his heart. Those who don’t come to Washington to gawk come to get. And the little chiseler is a setup for the bigger chiseler. The characters in “The Gilded Age,” by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner have shaved off their beards, but otherwise are still with us. Men with grandiloquent schemes, who think a Congressman from their county can land them a $10,000,000 contract for the quick conversion of a barn, are ready-made for the polished pros who can wrap that up for them and who set themselves forth as “expediters.”
They confide, sotto voce, that they have connections which they can’t even breathe about; they hint with delicacy that certain people must be reached, and for that purpose advance funds must be placed in hand, after which the expediter will gladly accept a small commission on the completed deal--as, if, and never.
That is only one, but the main one, of the lines. Nowhere else are there so many men and women who live in luxury and are guilty of vagrancy. In a community of nonproducers, where there is a minimum of tangible exchange, the nature of man breeds agents and agents’ agents, because the liveliest industry is “getting to” people who can or could deliver golcondas.
Those who are not big-time enough to know people can know people who know people, and do nicely on the far fringes. They case a “prospect” and work him on whatever he is after. His principal occupation will be waiting--waiting; thus he will have the time as well as the temperament to be plucked. In that atmosphere the crudest con-games flourish. Never trust a stranger in Washington. Gyp-and-clip carney operators who are run off the lot because they can’t shill a rustic to a ten-cent wheel of fortune, come here and take executive vice-presidents.
A. Swindlers with Swank
Beware of smooth-gabbing guys who drive around in big black limousines with chauffeurs and live in costly apartments staffed with butlers, housekeepers and valets. Some may be on the up-and-up. But, what with taxes and cost of living, few square shooters can afford such luxury.
A few we know:
One has an “in” in the reservation departments of the big hotels. He is tipped off to the prospective arrival of a wealthy chump. This is how he worked one case: When Mr. Money arrived at the airport, the grifter had him paged, then introduced himself with a bunk story, such as being a friend of the hotel manager, who had asked him to pick up the boob. The lamb lamps the limo and is sure the glib gypster who is giving him a lift is okay. The wire has been properly briefed on the stranger’s habits. He knows he’d go for a little life, so he suggests they go to his suite for a slug. In a little while, a couple of babes happen in. Soon everyone is drunk and undressed. That’s when the pictures are ground out. One metal-manufacturer went for $35,000, left town next day.
Another sold the famous Muscle Shoals Dam to a former Congressman from Nebraska for $50,000. He used Henry Ford’s name as a reference and flashed a phony letter from him authorizing the sale.
Some years ago, in another administration, this same tip-and-tosser tried to sell forged documents to the President and Vice-President and other high officials. He said they were found in the clothes of a dead man on the street. The papers, if genuine, were so hot they would have blown up the government.
If someone tells you he can let you in on the inside of a hot oil deal, and then introduces you to a couple of “prospectors” who just arrived from Kentucky, call the cops, especially if one is an Indian with long plaited hair and the other is dressed like a vaudeville comedian’s idea of a Southern Colonel. These fast workers make a splendid living peddling queer securities from an office on the sidewalk in front of the Ambassador Hotel, at 14th and K. They have a fabulous well in Kentucky, and they guarantee it is producing. It is. One barrel a day.
They mooch strictly person-to-person. They do no business through the mails, so they are clear of the Post Office and the SEC. Many of their meat are middle-aged and elderly women, widows with a small amount of insurance or a modest business like a rooming-house preferred. But they will tackle tough touches, approached originally by dames.
Watch out for anyone you meet in a hotel who offers to get you a dame. Odds are you will end up in a barrel, running second in a badger-game. The boys tried it on a Washington newspaperman recently, but for once they saw the back of the eight-ball. Not only didn’t the reporter have any money, but he knew the right cops. He ended up borrowing a century-note from them.
B. Fortune-tellers
Reading the future is big business and strictly sanctioned by law, at an annual fee of $250.
Wives of high officials, members of Congress, and society dames are pushovers for this kind of flimflam, and fork over sums to astrologers, palmists, psychics, clairvoyants, and other such miracle-mongers. Many government officials furtively consult fortune-fakers. (Look at the state the country is in now.)
These thimble-riggers advertise openly. Most of them state “Licensed by the District of Columbia,” which convinces the morons they have been investigated and certified by government authorities.
One dame, Madame Harrison Astor, states “... prides herself on the fact of being the only palmist in the world who during her stay in England has been officially summoned to the St. James’ Palace to read for his late Majesty King Edward VII.”
Martha Mar Vell, who advertises herself as a palmist, clairvoyante, medium, spiritualist and practitioner of spirit ember and Egyptian sand divinations, haughtily warns, “Please observe hours.”
Many fortune-tellers are on the con, hoodwink the superstitious into investing in shady enterprises; they often do not even go that far, but relieve them directly of money to cure the evil eye and the hex.
Some legislators and high officials make no moves without consulting their favorite psychics. That is why they are licensed here, whereas in other cities, when they get by, it is sub rosa.
Some oracles who boast august personages or their wives in their clientele are in the pay of foreign governments, Communists, lobbyists or fingermen for thieves. Lawmakers or law enforcers come to the mediums or diviners to seek advice from the spirits or the stars and get what the swindlers have been paid to tell them.
Gypsies never had it better. Most of them don’t bother to buy licenses. As this was being written, a gypsy fortune-teller was under indictment charged with using such props as torn diapers, a red candle and a department store ladies’ room, to skin three Washington housewives of $450. Police said Julia Nichols would show up at a woman’s home, announce she was a church-worker, then tell the housewife she was hexed. She would ask for money, a handkerchief or diaper. She would tear the cloth in half, fold the money in it and depart to have it “blessed.” And blessed if she would return!
Rituals were involved, the police said. In one case Miss Nichols allegedly placed a silver dollar in a glass of water and told her victim to park the tumbler in a bureau drawer. In another, she allegedly enclosed the money in a diaper, with flour, salt, and a length of the housewife’s hair. In a third case, police said, the gypsy led a victim from her home to a department store rest-room before taking her money. In another, she allegedly left a housewife’s apartment with the currency after giving her a red candle to light and telling her to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
C. Free Loaders
A shrewdie can live here forever on the cuff. A gate-crasher, if well-dressed, can be choosy about eating and drinking gratis. Every day there’s a profusion of breakfasts, lunches, cocktail parties, dinners and late suppers thrown by lobbyists, corporations, officials, pressure groups, embassies and social climbers.
Admission is by invitation, but bids are sent out broadside. Organizations and lobbyists exchange mailing lists, even take names out of directories. Almost anyone who cares to get on such a roster can. Once on, his name makes all others. If he isn’t entered, it is simple to mooch an invitation from someone who has one, because few use them. Few large affairs are well guarded. It takes little ingenuity to walk in nonchalantly and act like a belonger.
The gate-crashers turn up in the unlikeliest places, maybe breakfasting at a press conference given by ladies of the W.C.T.U., lunching at a radio salesmen’s convention and dining, in tails and white tie, at a debutante’s ball.
Beds, and what goes with them--gals--can be stiffed, too. Those who make the lobbyists’ lists are invited to the wild parties in the hotels and mansions, where all that is on the house.
A friend of ours, a Congressman, told us this story. He was walking down Connecticut Avenue, past the Mayflower Hotel, on his way to dine at Harvey’s. He bumped into an acquaintance, a press agent from New York, who insisted the Congressman eat with him. “I’m going up to a swell private party at the Mayflower,” he said. The Congressman went along, had a wonderful meal, with wine and cigars, and soon pretty blondes began to mix. The satisfied legislator turned to his friend and said, “Gee, this is a swell party. I’d like to thank the host. Who is he?” The press agent said, “Damned if I know. I’ve been trying to find out all night.”
D. The Introducers
Nowhere else on earth, including New York, are there as many guys who make their livings introducing people. These articles thrive because they are personality-plus ghees with guts, who know right people, and if they don’t they go through the motions. If you want to meet someone--cabinet officer, army brass, congressman, fixer, or social hostess--these birds will introduce you--no hoke. They can get you into the White House to meet the President. They play poker with General Vaughan.
These fellows are functional. They are the catalysts who bring various elements together. When they assume a contract from an industrialist to introduce him to a bureau chief, they serve for the bureau chief, too, by introducing him to the industrialist from whom he will get favors in return for favors.
Some of the introducers work for straight fees. Others, smoother, are taken care of in politer but more lucrative ways, such as getting on the inside for a hunk of stock or a chance to buy government surplus for peanuts or other charming get-rich-quick methods.
You can be introduced to charming ladies, too. Polished procuring is a polite profession. No lush-rolling or extortion involved. It is honest pimping. Yet, little Rollo, there are still some honest gentlemen in Washington.
