Chapter 3
Branching Out
Atlantic City turned out to be a good place to hang for a while. It was chock full of greedy people, some of whom had too much money for their own good. There was also a lot of illegal drug use going on, and dope was like prostitution; you couldn't report to the authorities a deal gone south.
The duo didn't venture near the boardwalk or the casino—security there was too tight—but to the bars and discos on the fringe. They relocated to more modest living arrangements and took their meals out of a can or at a luncheonette.
Except for a few up-front expenditures—a new driver's license for Willie and a carton of cheap wrist watches—the senior partner kept a tight grip on the purse strings; no more hookers and buying drinks for the house. All profits went in the proverbial piggybank to bankroll the long con, the big payoff. The Irishman was obsessed with it.
Willie liked these new scenarios because he often had the leading role, and Jason was his shill; this meant the lad was capable and his mentor trusted him. What it really meant was that the shaggy-haired con artist looked more like a dope pusher. Their knowledge of such dealings was limited but, with the right script, it was easy to swindle patsies who were just begging for it. The kid had smoked marijuana in the Caribbean, where it was cheap and plentiful, and shared hashish that smelled like spices with some Turkish sailors.
Their mark was a 30-something with a droopy mustache and polyester leisure suit. Jason sat on a barstool a few seats away. He held $20 up to the bartender and ordered a Guinness. While his drink was being poured, Jason palmed the twenty and slipped a ten in its place. The barkeep took the bill without noticing, put it in the cash register and brought back $18.50 in change.
The Irishman looked a little edgy, checking his watch and counting the cash in his billfold. "Mark" made inane small talk to which the other responded in a distracted manner. After a while, Willie sauntered in, took a stool between the two, flashed his ID to the bartender before being asked, and ordered a beer.
"I've been waitin' here for 20 minutes. What have ya got?" Jason demanded.
Willie put his finger to his lips, looked around and sipped his beer. "You are cordially invited to shut the fuck up," he whispered, and in a sloppy handoff, slipped Jason a small baggie of oregano. Mark pretended not to watch.
The Irishman was peeved. "This is not what we agreed upon," he hissed. "What's goin' on? I brought the cash."
The dealer drank with one hand and held out the other under the bar. Jason handed him a stack of bills which he counted, again under the bar, and handed back.
"Not enough. I told you, this dude only deals in big quantities."
"But you said you had the rest."
Willie shrugged. "I was wrong."
At this point, the fly walked into their spider web and introduced himself. "Excuse me, have you got any more of that to, uh—"
"Shit." The pot peddler shot a glance at him, spun in his seat and started for the door. Mark jumped up and grabbed his arm.
"Wait! Where're you—?"
"You're a cop."
"No!" Then he was curious. "Do I look like a cop?"
"Yeah."
Mark laughed. "That's funny; I'm just trying to score some weed." He led the young man back to bar. "Let me buy you a drink."
Willie looked skeptical. "I already got a drink."
After considerable prodding, the druggie explained to Mark that his source sold premium-grade marijuana in quarter-pound quantities, bagged by the ounce, for only $400. It was a great deal if you had the cash outlay. You could split it up and resell to your friends at market price, providing free smoke for you and a profit to boot. But they were $200 short to pull off the deal.
"I'd love to get in on this, but I don't have that much on me," Mark said, shaking his head.
"The bartender will cash a check," Jason offered.
"Whoa, hold on," Willie interrupted, holding up a hand to his partner, he addressed the stranger. "I don't even know you. I only deal with people I know."
"My name is Mark." Willie stifled a smile as Mark proceeded to beg the boy to take his money.
Willie wadded up the cash roll from Jason and the dupe and stuffed it in his pocket.
"This'll take about 45 minutes—"
"In that case, I'm goin' to the gents." Jason excused himself to visit the restroom and slipped out the back door.
"He's such a loser," the pusher confided to his new associate. "If I knew a better connection, I wouldn't deal with him anymore." Mark smiled, and Willie smiled back.
The young man wrote a phone number on the back of his cardboard coaster. "I dunno if I can trust him with this, so I'm givin' it to you. There's a pay phone over there; call this number in 30 minutes, and I'll tell you where to meet me. Okay?" He headed for the door.
"Hey, wait!" the sucker had a thought. Willie turned on his heel and walked back, slightly impatient. "How do I know you won't just take off with my money?"
The dealer thought for a moment then hesitantly pulled off his wristwatch. "Here. Hold this till I get back. And be careful; don't scratch it. It's a Rolex." The boy looked at him trustingly. "It was my dad's." They shook hands, and Willie shot out the front door.
Mark sat back at the bar and drained his glass, then patted the watch in his pocket. He could take off now, before the other dude got back. To hell with the weed; he just scored a Rolex for $200.
It was a good payoff for one hour's effort. The conmen continued to work this scam for a couple of weeks in different areas before it had to go into the back drawer. However, Willie was getting antsy and wanted to blow town. Jason wouldn't allow him hang out on the beach or the boardwalk, and the boy couldn't sit all day in that hell hole of a motel room watching cockroach races up the walls. So they hopped a bus for Philly.
June 1976
Willie felt more at home in a big city. Late in the evenings he sold fake hashish to college students on subway platforms. It was a recipe for Playdoh (flour, salt, oil and cream of tartar) mixed with powdered sage for aroma, and cooked on a hotplate. He then shaped the substance into little balls which were then wrapped in tinfoil. It would have been cool to sell artificial cocaine, which would turn a bigger profit, but getting the right consistency was difficult. Some people, he knew, used talcum powder, but that wasn't right. It needed to be choppy, didn't it? Like little rocks.
Jason worked another part of town. He opened a business bank account called JM Investment Management Fund, printed business cards, engaged an answering service, and crashed cocktail parties on the Main Line. This was not the big score—not yet. Not even stupid, wealthy saps would be willing to write million dollar checks to an unknown entity, but in exchange for some enticing promises, they were certainly willing to test the waters. The Irishman flattered and fawned and led living room sing-alongs while tinkling their baby grands. He had a most endearing way of charming the panties off of recent divorcees and long-time widows.
There was no role for his scruffy sidekick in this storyline, but just as well, that was not Willie's scene. He haunted subways, bars and discos during the week, and spent Friday and Saturday nights on South Street, where he sold balls of Playdoh and bags of oregano in front of the Theatre of the Living Arts to girls in sequined corsets and guys in fishnet stockings and spooky makeup. The freak show would line up outside the theatre before midnight, and street vendors of tee shirts, posters and record albums would hawk their wares. He picked pockets when opportunity presented itself, but it's difficult to lift a wallet out of a guy's garter belt.
By 12:05 Willie would find himself standing alone on the deserted street. One night (or morning, rather) he stopped to observe the curious movie poster with its big red lips and the title in dripping blood. Even the cashier was gone, so the young man decided to see what all the fuss was about Rocky Horror and slipped inside.
The house was packed. Willie squeezed in between a guy with stringy blond hair hanging off a bald cap and a girl in her underwear with a ripped half slip. She handed him a joint that was being handed down the row, right out in the open. The boy shrugged, took a hit, and passed it on.
It was a circus. The audience shouted at the movie screen, climbed onto stage to mimic the actors and danced in the aisles. Willie was pummeled with uncooked rice, toast and toilet paper. He didn't have any of his own props, but pulled out his lighter when everyone else did and waved it in the air. He had no idea why because he couldn't follow the plot or hear anything going on in the movie, but apparently that wasn't the point. The young man lit a cigarette but ten seconds later got squirted by an usher with a water pistol.
"You can't smoke in a movie theatre. What's the matter with you?"
This place had some crazy ass rules.
The City of Brotherly Love was a lot of fun, but their stay was short. Jason needed to close his accounts and make a hasty exit. Just as well, because Willie couldn't keep showing up on South Street with imitation drugs; the same people came back all the time and eventually the pretend pusher would get caught. At first he wondered why someone would want to see the same film over and over again, every weekend. But that was before he realized it was to participate in a rock 'n roll musical event with almost naked girls and cannibal transvestite aliens from outer space.
Being at that cinema gave him a feeling of camaraderie with peers he hadn't known for a long time. If he and Jason had stuck around, Willie would have liked to stop pushing the fake weed and join in the party, maybe get himself some rice and newspapers. He imagined dressing up as Eddie, the greaser who rides in on a motorcycle and then gets murdered with an ice pick and eaten.
When the film finished, the throng would migrate to South Philly and nosh on steak sandwiches on torpedo rolls with Cheese Whiz and ketchup at 2:30 in the morning. Willie would tag along because these college kids talked to him and treated him like a friend. If this kept up, the boy promised himself he would stop picking their pockets.
But, back in the world that was Willie's reality, it was time for a hasty exit.
"One step closer, boy-o, to the big payoff." Jason folded his nice suit and tucked it neatly into his sea chest as his partner shoved his possessions into a duffle, along with his growing collection of hotel soaps and shampoos.
"I wish we could go to the ball park," his mate remarked wistfully as he threw out the newspaper. "It says here that the Phillies are playing the Dodgers at Veterans Stadium. I never seen a live ball game, Jason."
"Not now, son," his companion replied. "We've no time or money for such distractions; mustn't miss the tide."
Willie knew that wasn't true but didn't comment. Jason had just finished bragging about how fat the score was in Philadelphia, that cash flow was good and prospects were high. The Irishman just didn't like baseball, especially not the Dodgers since that time the kid lost a wad of cash gambling on his favorite team.
The sailors headed for the docks where Jason had signed them up on another tramp ship called Nuestra Señora, bound for Kilkenny, Ireland.
