The Con Man Read Online Free Page B

announce the most compelling novel since Gone With The Wind.
    THE TATTERED PICCOLO
    A Book of the Month Club selection…
    A Literary Guild selection…
    A Reader’s Digest Book Club selection…
    Purchased by a major movie company as a
vehicle for Tab Hunter…
6,000,000 copies now in print!
    Rush to your bookseller. He may still
have a few in stock!
    “The trouble with this guy’s parties is he doesn’t know how to mix martinis. It takes a certain amount of finesse, you know. Now, here’s my formula. You take a water glass full of gin…”
    “Hello, friends, I’m George Grosnick. This is my brother Louie Grosnick. We make Grosnick Beer…All right, Louie, you tell them…”
    It’s the hard sell and the soft sell, anywhere you go, everywhere you go. It comes at you a hundred times a day, and maybe it’s stretching a point to say that every human being has his own confidence game, that every human being has a tiny touch of larceny in his soul, but be careful, friend; the television is on, and that man is pointing at you!
    The man in the dark-blue suit was a con man.
    He sat in the hotel lobby waiting for a man named Jamison. He had first seen Jamison at the railroad station when the train from Boston pulled in. He had followed Jamison to the hotel, and now he sat in the lobby and waited for him to appear because the man in the dark-blue suit had plans for Jamison.
    He was a good-looking man, tall, with even features and a friendly mouth and eyes. He dressed immaculately. His white shirt was spotless, and his suit was freshly pressed. His black shoes were highly polished, and amazing in this elastic-top-socked age, his socks were held firmly in place with garters.
    He was holding a guidebook to the city in his hand.
    He looked at his watch. It was close to 6:30, and Jamison should be down soon if he planned on having dinner at all. The lobby bustled with activity. A beer company was holding eliminations for its yearly glamour girl contest, and models swarmed over the thick rugs, accompanied by press agents and photographers.All of the models looked the same. The hair-coloring varied, but otherwise, they all looked the same. They were, in essence, symbols created by con men. They were, too, in essence, con men themselves.
    He saw Jamison come out of one of the elevators. Quickly, he rose and stood with the guidebook open at the top of the steps leading to the street. He could see Jamison, from the corner of his eye, moving toward the steps. He buried himself in the guidebook, and when Jamison was abreast of him, he moved sharply to the left, colliding with him.
    Jamison looked startled. He was a stout man with a red face, dressed in a brown pinstripe. The con man fumbled for the fallen guidebook, and then, from his knees, said, “Gosh, I’m sorry. Excuse me, please.”
    “That’s all right,” Jamison said.
    The con man stood up. “I got so involved in this book I guess I wasn’t watching where I…Say, you’re all right, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, I’m fine,” Jamison said.
    “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that. This darn book is Greek to me. I can tell you that I’m from Boston, you see. I’ve been trying to make out the street—”
    “Boston?” Jamison said, interested. “Really?”
    “Well, not exactly. A suburb. West Newton. Do you know it?”
    “Why, sure I do,” Jamison said. “I’ve lived in Boston all my life.”
    The con man’s face opened with delighted surprise. “Is that right? Well, I’ll be…Say, how do you like that?”
    “Small world, ain’t it?” Jamison said, grinning.
    “Listen, this calls for something,” the con man said. “I’m superstitious that way. Something like this happens, it calls for something. Let me buy you a drink.”
    “Well, I was just on my way to dinner,” Jamison said.
    “Fine, we’ll have a drink together, and then you can go on your way. Tell you the truth, I’m tickled I ran into you. I don’t know a soul in this town.”
    “I