The Art of the Con

by R. Paul Wilson

  —WOODY ALLEN

  The box was about three feet square and six inches deep, filled with shallow holes along the base that were numbered, seemingly at random, from one to six. The leather cup standing inside the box held eight marbles, each the perfect size to rest in the holes. On the counter was a printed game card that would turn these simple props into one of the most powerful con games of all time.

  We set up our stall near the English seaside town of Bournemouth, close to the promenade and pier. Nearby, other stalls hosted honest games promising toys of all sizes to lucky players. Our prizes were considerably more attractive. Xboxes, flat-screen TVs, watches, and every kind of home appliance we could fit onto the back wall. Getting people involved was going to be easy. I had spent years trying to convince the network and my producers that this scam was worth using for an episode of The Real Hustle. In the end, it was simply added to the schedule for convenience, a filler between more interesting, sexier scams. I was the only one with any enthusiasm for it and expectations were low. But I had seen this little game before and had spent years working on the secret. This was more than just another item to me. I knew it might be the greatest little scam of all time.

  Our first mark walked up and was soon hooked by our wall of merchandise and, as was traditional, I offered him a free throw to illustrate the rules of the game. Tossed from the cup into the box, the marbles rolled and bounced until all eight rested in random holes. I then picked up each of them, adding the numbers of the holes they resided in until I had a total. This random number was then compared to a game chart, similar to a monthly calendar, which was on display around the stall. The chart featured possible totals from an eight-ball roll, some of which would give the player points, while others rewarded him with a house prize (marked “HP” on the chart) or nothing at all. The objective of the game was to collect ten points, rewarded by winning totals, in order to claim one of the prizes behind me. If the player’s roll added to twenty-nine, an extra prize was added but the cost of each roll was then doubled.

  This seemed like a lot to take in for the player, but his first roll made everything clear. I counted his total to be forty-four and, checking the chart, this gave the player five points, taking him halfway to a winning score. I moved a little brass slider along the rail to indicate his points and told him that he could keep that score if he wanted to continue playing. Without hesitation, he reached for his wallet and we were on our way.

  His first couple of rolls resulted in no more points, but eventually he rolled a twenty-nine. This, I told him, meant he could select a second prize to play for, but it also meant he had to double the stakes, each roll now costing double the original amount. On his next roll he got lucky and hit a fifteen, and another one and a half points were added to his score.

  So it continued until he had stumbled onto twenty-nine several times, increasing his prizes but forcing him to spend more money to stay in the game. Occasionally he scored another half point until, finally, he was just one point away from winning a home filled with video game consoles and televisions. After just six rolls of twenty-nine, each roll was now costing thirty-two pounds and another twenty-nine would bring it up to sixty-four pounds! I watched as he pulled the last of the cash from his wallet and counted. He had enough for one last roll. If he scored one point, it would all have been worthwhile. He up-ended the cup and watched the marbles tumble and bounce until they settled in their holes. I counted each one and checked the chart. I moved the slider to nine and a half.

  The mark pulled open his wallet, as if expecting more money to magically appear. He was three hundred pounds in the hole and the game appeared to be over. His friend had already loaned all of his money; all seemed lost until I stepped in and pointed out his ATM cards. “I’m not supposed to do this,” I lied, “but if you’re back here in two minutes I’ll hold that score.”

  He looked at me, then at the wall of prizes. His inner voice was counting how much he’d already lost and he was pulling back from the brink. But thirty seconds later he was running to the cash machine to get all the money his bank would allow.

  One of my favorite jokes is about a guy who meets a beautiful girl in Coney Island. One thing leads to another and she invites him home to spend the night. Entering her bedroom, he sees that the walls are filled from floor to ceiling with shelves containing soft toys of every description, from enormous teddy bears to tiny, stuffed cartoon bunny rabbits, hundreds of them on every wall. Ignoring the toys, he undresses and j umps into bed. Later, as they lie together, the man asks, “How was I?” and the girl turns to him, looks deep into his eyes and says, “You can have any toy from the bottom two shelves.”

  For a child in 1970s Scotland, the closest thing to New York’s Coney Island was Burntisland, a tiny town north of Edinburgh in the Kingdom of Fife. Every year I would go to the annual fair that stayed throughout the summer, with gut-wrenching rides, greasy food, and carnival games. The ground was always torn up and this grimy “Fun Fair” was as unpleasant as any I’ve seen since, but the lights and painted trucks somehow distracted me from muddy shoes, rotten candy apples, and poorly maintained machinery. I was regularly dragged away from rocket ships filled with screaming passengers and whirling “Waltzers” orbited by trails of partly digested hot dogs. To keep my grandmother sane, I spent all my pocket money on the game stalls.

  I loved the games, but I rarely went home with more than a handful of candy. I could hook a rubber duck with my eyes closed, but I couldn’t throw at all, and almost any game that required hand and eye coordination was safe from me. The only exceptions were that I could shoot pretty well (I later rated as a marksman in the British Army), and I could cover a large painted spot with metal coasters on my second or third try. Yet, no matter how many shots hit the target or spots were covered, I never seemed to win more than a small toy or plastic gizmo.

  One such “prize” was a bright green frog with a silver spring attached to a rubber suction cup. Pushing the spring against the plastic base of the frog caused it to stick until the spring forced the base and sucker apart, throwing the frog into the air. I loved it. One day I walked into the post office near my grandparents’ house and saw a display box filled with the same plastic frogs, each one costing a fraction of a single game in Burntisland. That was it; I never played the stalls again. Just like the guy in the joke, I knew I’d been screwed.

  My position on carnival games has softened over the years as the pissed-off ten-year-old inside of me gradually conceded that the games were never about winning prizes. The atmosphere, the sights, the sounds, and the smell of the fair were what really attracted me; winning was never the point.

  The games are there to make money, and the prizes reward the few who get lucky. It is possible to win many of these games, and I recommend you take your best shot. The beatable games are not the problem, even when the odds of winning are stacked against you. It’s the games that have been designed solely to fleece suckers and force them to lose serious money that you need to be aware of, even if you never set foot on carny ground again. These games are miniature, ingenious versions of much bigger scams, and understanding how they work will help develop your newfound grift sense.

  Fair or Foul

  Carnival games, in all countries, are played in accordance with the honesty and good intentions of the stall operator. Almost any game can be manipulated against the player, but a fairground where no one wins will soon be deserted as word spreads. It’s a game of give and take, and the carny’s job is to ensure he takes more than he gives in order to make a profit.

  Going to the fair and playing the games should be fun, and I hope you win a prize or two, but if you dream of emptying the shelves to impress your friends, then prepare to be disappointed. The operator’s job is not just to run the game but to stay on top of how much stock they “throw” (allow people to win). Twenty percent of every dollar might be returned to the players, but the number of winners is then determined by the cost of the prizes, which are
called “plush.” Good-looking plush attracts more players but costs more to fill the stall. If a soft toy costs the carny two dollars and the game is played for one dollar, then the stall can only afford for one in ten players to win when throwing 20 percent.

  Stall owners also vary how much they throw back depending on factors like weather and how long the carnival has been in town. It’s not unusual for them to pepper the crowd with more prizes at the start of a run and then pull back, throwing a much smaller percentage toward the end, when most of the easy money has dried up. How these losses are controlled is the uncertain ground between a fair game and a crooked one, but, for the most part, it’s no different than playing a slot machine without knowing the exact odds against you; most people sitting on stools in Las Vegas have no idea what the return is on the machine they’re feeding.

  Games can break down into types. Skill-based games appear to be much easier than they actually are, so profit depends on players needing to buy several attempts before they either win or earn a small consolation prize. Group games, where several players take part at once, are easy money as the players are competing against each other to win one prize. The size of that prize is determined by the size of the group, so it’s easy to stay on margin. Physical games, where the player’s strength or athletic prowess is seemingly tested, are fair but the chances of winning are still against you. Percentage games grind out a healthy profit over time, and, like all joints, are easily manipulated since the operator decides how to apply the “rules” depending on how much plush is taking a walk.

  Practice Imperfect

  If you’ve ever hoped to win a giant teddy bear for your sweetheart, then you should know by now that it involves more than luck and skills. Some games can be beaten if you are willing to make up your own props and spend time to learn the basics before putting money down. Many games are homemade by the stall operators, so the weight and size of what you’ll be playing with may vary, but in games of skill, the principle is what matters. A little muscle memory and knowledge of the best strategy can be a great advantage.

  Cover the Spot is my game of choice. I have several sets at home and occasionally I spend some time practicing the drop, where the first disc must land exactly or the game is already lost. Whenever I find a stall running this game, it usually takes me a couple of tries to get the drop right with their props, but I almost always walk away with a modest prize. Even though I own my own rig (actually several) and take the time to practice, I’m no real danger to the stall operators unless I get it 100 percent right every single time. In that case I might walk away with a giant piece of plush, but that’s a rare occurrence on any game.

  Even when the games are honest tests of skill, the chances that anyone would make their own rig and spend time to earn their chops are so small that most carnys don’t care. They control the outcome and they’ve had a lot more practice running a game than anyone has had playing it. Many stalls sport a sign that says “One Prize Per Player Per Night,” an easy way to filter out the wise guys who know how to play. As soon as the operator spots someone who’s in the know, he throws him a cheap tchotchke, points at the sign, and sends him on his way. Others control the game by referring to the rules with varying degrees of honesty. Bucket games, where a ball is tossed over a rail or shelf and into an angled basket or plastic tub, depend on the ball to bounce out most of the time. If someone starts to perfect their throw and get the ball to stay inside, then the operator tells them they stepped on the red line, or leaned too far over the rail. These stalls are run by “alibi agents” who use a litany of excuses to dismiss successful players. Alibi joints vary in strength from difficult games like the basket toss to easier games where the alibi (excuse) is used constantly.

  Even if you’ve developed a knack for the basket toss, the ball is more likely to bounce out from the angle you’re throwing it from. Operators demonstrate by throwing from a different angle, using the side to deaden the ball so it doesn’t jump right back out and then throw from the rail, leaving that first ball in the tub, which cushions the next two balls. I’ve even seen stalls where the operator has a special ball that looks identical to the others but is heavier and less inclined to bounce. To win, you need to throw the ball so it enters the tilted basket almost vertically, but some stalls forbid such throws, leaving you with nothing but luck to depend upon.

  A completely gaffed version of the basket toss is the infamous Scissor Bucket where players must throw a ball against the base of a solid wooden bucket so that the ball falls down, through a hole, and into a pouch. These gaffed units can be lined up and used to scam as many people as the operator can afford buckets. The secret is a dampening block that is moved forward until flush with the rear of the base. With the block in this position, the force of the ball knocks it away, dampening the ball’s forward motion enough for it to fall into the hole. Without this block in place, the backboard would bounce any ball straight out of the bucket. As the block is hidden behind the backboard and inside the unit, it’s impossible to tell the difference other than to know that, if the ball goes into the hole, the block must have been in place to kill it.

  There are many gaffed games that allow dishonest operators to control almost every outcome while appearing to offer a fair game. Catalogs from gambling supply houses list everything needed to operate games fairly or dishonestly. These are now considered collectibles, but modern reprints can be found filled with all sorts of fanciful devices designed to cheat or steal. Among them are many carnival games built solely to make money without the operator needing to take any risk whatsoever. Modern-day carnival supply companies sell prizes and all the props needed to operate modern games, from plastic tubs with the right kind of balls to specially made basketball hoops, narrower than the real thing and oval in shape so even Michael Jordan would have trouble making a shot.

  There’s an angle for every game on the midway. To beat the plate game, where coins are thrown onto ceramic plates, players must throw the coin lightly toward the far wide rim of the plate in the hope that it bounces back into the middle of the dish. Carnys have been known to bake these plates in a kiln until the outer diameter sags slightly, considerably reducing the chances of a winning throw. Throwing lightweight plastic rings into an enormous box crammed with empty soda bottles seems like an easy proposition when the objective is to land just one ring over the neck of any bottle. The odds are about 700 to 1; I’ve actually read that hundreds of rings have been dropped simultaneously without a single ring ending up as a winner. In hundreds of tests, investigators found that every winner resulted from a ring bouncing randomly and that the only effective strategy would be to throw two rings together so if they happen to drop onto a neck, the bottom ring will be deadened by the ring above it and stay in place as the upper ring flies off to find its own fate. Not surprisingly, most stalls insist that you throw one ring at a time!

  Tin can or bottle games are easily gaffed and can be set to win or lose. If one of the cans is heavier than the rest, then setting it back slightly on the bottom row will mean the ball will lose all of its energy, knocking the lighter cans off the shelf. Putting the heavier can on top of the pyramid makes a winning throw possible and is used when the operator demonstrates or needs to lose a few games to avoid playing his joint too strong. The heavy can is not the only way to fix these games. With two glass bottles at the end of a wooden runway, it seems there can be no gaff but there is: simply edging one forward by a hair is enough to kill forward motion of the lightweight ball and keep one bottle standing. In games where bottles, cans, or “cats,” need to be knocked off a shelf, the space between the shelf and the back wall determines how fair the game really is. The more space there is for the object to topple over, the fairer the game.

  These rigged games are not limited to the midway. The Tip Up invites players to push up on the neck of a bottle that begins lying on its side, until it stands. If the bottle stays upright, the player wins; if it falls back over, he loses. This is a simple but ingeni
ous game that takes advantage of the fact that almost all bottles are off-balance and slightly heavier on one side. The game operator determines which side is heavy and sets that half on top to guarantee a loser. The additional weight, though slight, is enough to carry the bottle past the standing position so it always falls over. If the bottle is set with the weight on the bottom, then it’s possible for the bottle to settle on the base.

  I once made up a version of this game to demonstrate how much money a con man could make in an hour. Starting with nothing, I gathered the necessary props, had the bartender loan me a bottle (that I’d already tested), and got a crowd of people to play. By manipulating who could win and when, I made over five hundred theoretical dollars before convincing one unlucky chump to let it ride and try for three stands in a row. The first two were easy but, thanks to the way I set the third, he didn’t stand a chance.

  Some people take a dim view of any game with a “gaff” designed to make it seem a lot easier than it actually is. Newspaper reports and television exposes take basketball champions to the midway who find they can’t shoot a single basket or special forces snipers who can’t shoot out a red star that’s six feet down-range. Reporters go on to reveal that the baskets are not regulation size, the balls are overinflated, or the fairground guns aren’t properly calibrated. Why on earth would a carnival game observe NBA regulations or provide properly sighted weapons? In my opinion, they’re looking at the wrong games. These stall owners are offering entertainment, and while I agree that there’s a deception in the way they present themselves, trickery should be accepted in this world. It comes with the territory.

  The Flat Joint

  While the midway offers games with little chance of success, it may also feature a particular breed of game that’s designed purely to steal money. A “flat joint” or “flat store” is a game where there’s no real chance of winning. Many legitimate carnys dislike having these games around as they generate a bad feeling, public distrust, and, all too often, police attention. They can still be found in carnivals, but they are just as likely to appear anywhere that offers a fresh supply of unwary victims. Some games can be reworked on the fly, starting as a percentage or skill-based affair but becoming an outright scam when the operator offers to change the structure of the game.