Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (34 page)

KEEP YER EYE ON THE PEA

James “Umbrella Jim” Miner, the “Poet Gambler,” always began his shell game under an umbrella, rain or shine, indoors or out, and always warned his potential victims in rhyming couplets on the Mississippi riverboats that he was about to take their money. And he did. With three walnut shells, a dried pea, and a little sleight of hand.

In the gambling saloon aboard the Riverboat
Delphine
, the fat man gulped the last few swallows of his drink and turned his attention to the mild commotion at the far end of the room. “What's going on out there?” he said aloud, half to the bartender.

“I expect it's Umbrella Jim. He always gets people all worked up.” The bartender smiled and nodded toward the crowd.

“Who's Umbrella Jim?” The fat man asked.

“You don't know that, then mister, you'd do well to go and see. It ain't likely you'll forget any time soon.”

“Hmmph.” But the fat man pushed off his bar stool and padded down the length of the long, narrow barroom. It was barely midday and to either side the gaming tables were only half-filled. From the far corner behind him, he heard the tinkling keys of the piano, the player warming up for another long run at the ivories. As he walked through the already-heavy gauze of cigar smoke, he heard the random clink of chips on chips on baize-topped tables.

He made his way out onto the deck, craning his neck to see above the crowd. And there was an umbrella, all right. And standing under it was a thin, small man, head bent to his task, all eyes on him.

The fat man moved closer, edging his girth through the crowd to the front. He smirked. Now he saw what the commotion was all about. It was a sleight-of-hand man. Every person in the growing crowd stared not at the man under the umbrella but at his hands as he quickly shuffled three walnut shells atop a small folding table before him. He paused, looked up, and feigned surprise at the gathering.

“Well, well, good day to you, ladies and gentlemen. I am Umbrella Jim Miner,” he bowed and held up his hands and said:

He winked and once more set to work on the shells, lifting one to reveal the pea beneath. He nodded, catching the attention of several folks, among them the scowling fat man. They locked gazes for a moment, then Umbrella Jim said, “Keep your eye on the pea, my good man.”

He shuffled the shells once more, rotating them in quick order, though not so fast that the fat man couldn't detect under which shell the pea still hid. Abruptly, Umbrella Jim stopped, lifted his hands free, palms facing the crowd. Then he turned his gaze on the fat man. “Care to wager, sir? You look like a fellow with keen eyesight. Perhaps you know under which shell the pea sits, waiting to be uncovered?”

The fat man smiled. “Of course I know. And just to prove it,” he reached into a vest pocket and pulled out several coins, “here's $10.”

“Very good sir, and if you should win, then I will double that. But if I should win, I keep your ten.”

The fat man nodded, not even trying to hide his smirk. He pointed at the shell on the left. Umbrella Jim's face was the very picture of worry and woe. Until he lifted the shell, revealing nothing. Then he tipped over the shell on the right, also empty beneath. The shell in the middle remained, and he quickly upended it, revealing the pea, of course.

“Care to go again?” Umbrella Jim looked at the fat man.

“That's impossible,” said the fat man. “I know for a fact where that pea was and it wasn't under the middle shell!”

“That's why they call it a con game,” said a tall, well-dressed man beside him.

If Umbrella Jim heard him, he didn't let on. “Anyone else care to make a friendly wager?”

Someone else was about to speak, but the fat man spoke up, then set down his money, another $10.

“Ah, just enough to cover your losses, eh?” Umbrella Jim began working the shells again. And again, he won.

They repeated this procedure several times, and with each round the fat man's face reddened and his jaw muscles bunched tighter. This was impossible, and yet as close as he watched the man's hands, there was no way he could detect how this Umbrella Jim character was cheating him. And yet he had to be. . . .

Another round, then the fat man shook his head. “I'll be jiggered if I can tell how you did it, but I know . . .” He held up a meaty finger half-pointing at the thin man beneath the umbrella. “I just know that you cheated. I just know it.”

Umbrella Jim's eyebrows knitted together. “Sir, I am offended you would think that I did anything untoward. I am merely adept at rearranging the shells. That's the beginning and end of it.” He leaned forward and said, “I tell you what. I'll gladly give you the opportunity to reverse your recent losses.” He winked and smiled.

The fat man's face purpled and he made a strangled grunting sound, then spun and parted the tittering crowd. It was time for a drink. He patted his vest pocket as he strode back toward the bar, but stopped short in the middle of the long room. The pocket was empty. He had bet, and lost, all that cash. All gone. From behind him, he heard the annoying shell-game artist's rhyme. . . .

FEELIN' LUCKY?

William B. “Lucky Bill” Thornton came into the world in the 1820s in Chenango County, New York, and though not much is known of his life over the coming couple of decades, there is plenty of information about his exploits as a forty-niner heading to California's goldfields.

En route with a wagon train, he ran a shell game and managed to clean out the wallets of a number of his fellow travelers. This did not endear him to the pioneers, but he managed to make it to Sacramento relatively unmolested and with a lot more money in his pockets than when he began the trip. Within two months in Sacramento, he made a further $24,000 and decided he did not need to mine for gold when mining the miners was working out to be so lucrative.

Unfortunately for Thornton, he was, as so many of his customers, an unrepentant gambler himself. His game of choice, faro, with its notoriously long odds and house-favored play, managed to empty Lucky Bill's wallet time and again. And each time, he worked his rigged shell game harder than ever just to keep himself in faro money.

By 1853 he managed to stay away from the gaming tables long enough to build up a stake that he used to buy a ranch in Carson Valley, Nevada. Here he and his family settled in, and Lucky Bill buckled down and operated a sawmill and toll road. By all accounts he was a respectable gent, though he did continue to gamble when and where the opportunity presented itself.

Thornton's story took a sad turn on June 18, 1858, when he and a handful of others were arrested, convicted by a vigilante court, and hanged for the murder of a Frenchman. It seems Lucky Bill's luck had finally run out.

I
f Soapy Smith is Denver's most notorious and well-known swindling son, and Doc Baggs was its genteel grifter, and Canada Bill Jones the town's resident card sharp, then Lou Blonger and his brother, Sam, ten years his senior, were the long-term, long-lived patriarchs of that city's con scene. Makes you wonder . . . why was Denver such a hotbed of deceit and trickery?

At that time, in the latter half of the nineteenth century, Denver was a geographic nexus of mining activity, surrounded as it was by innumerable gold camps, small and large. They ranged from single men working placer outfits to crews of partners working diggings to large-scale mining operations employing hundreds of men working around the clock to extract those all-important precious metals.

And with all that newfound wealth circulating, it was only natural that a locus fulfilling real needs—food, supplies, tools, assaying services, banks—should bloom into something more widespread. Numerous establishments stepped up, offering all manner of non-necessities, such distractions as gambling, prostitution, alcohol, opium in the Chinese quarter, dance halls, fine-(and not so) dining establishments, fancy hotels, and more.

As the months turned into years, it became apparent that Denver was not destined to become a played-out mine camp. The Mile-High City would instead grow, become home to a burgeoning government center, to families with children, and to numerous businesses large and small—a good many of which were still aimed at making a fast buck.

And in the midst of all this growth, one man, more so than all the other notable Denver swindlers, flourished. Louis Herbert Blonger was a gifted grifter who plied his trade in Denver for forty years. He became head of what was called his “Million-Dollar Bunco Ring” and worked every available angle. Like a chef seasoning a stewpot, Lou Blonger organized and shaped the town's fortunes, from government to private sector, as much as any of Denver's upstanding founding fathers. At the peak of his formidable game, Blonger's organization employed five hundred men, every one a con artist engaged in varying levels of chicanery throughout the city. A number of them were politicians, lawyers, journalists, and policemen.

A high percentage of those in Blonger's network were contract workers who split their take right down the middle with the boss man, a reasonable cut given that Blonger provided a level of protection from the law they would otherwise be unable to afford. Rumors circulated about the level of Blonger's power—one stated that he had a direct and dedicated telephone line straight to the police chief's desk top. Given that for a stretch of twenty years, no one in Blonger's employ was sent to prison, there may well be truth to the rumor.

A chunky little man with an unattractive appearance, Blonger made up for it with a keen intellect and an uncanny knack for sniffing out opportunity where others only saw complications that required too much effort. But that played right into Blonger's hands, as organization was his strong suit. But Blonger never sacrificed his long-term security for short-term gain, the primary reason for his longevity as king of Denver's con games.

He also kept a tight lead on his minions, ordering beatings for anyone in his employ who didn't measure up. On occasion he came across as a softy, as illustrated by the tongue-lashing he gave a grifter in his employ who was caught and arrested by an out-of-town Colorado lawman. The grifter had tried to swindle the lawman in a hotel lobby and was caught.

Blonger, as unspoken boss of the town, was called to the scene. He showed up and berated the thief right in front of the police: “You were recommended to me as a first-class bunco artist, and the first thing you do, you damned bastard, is pick up a deputy sheriff. What the hell are you tackling the law for, anyway? Don't you have sense enough to let Colorado people alone in Denver? I paid your transportation to Denver and put you to work. Now you walk back, and start now.”

While Blonger concentrated his efforts on greasing palms and keeping the machine of his empire well-oiled and running smoothly, he employed a foreman of sorts to make sure the daily take wasn't short, and that everyone grifted accordingly. That right-hand man was Adolph W. Duff, aka Kid Duffy, a rascal of the lowest order who, nonetheless, was able to keep the lowlifes in their place and earning without skimming more than their share. Duffy was so successful he was able to manage the minions even when Blonger's vast network spider-webbed out well beyond Denver to Florida, Louisiana, and Texas.