Long White Con: The Biggest Score of His Life
Read Long White Con: The Biggest Score of His Life Online
Authors: Iceberg Slim
ICEBERG SLIM IS SYNONYMOUS WITH THE PIMP GAME AND IS THE BLUEPRINT OT BEING THE ULTIMATE PLAYER. HE IS A WRITER, WHO LIVED AN INCREDIBLE LIFE AND WROTE AMAZING BOOKS THAT I GREW UP ON, ABOUT THE “LIFE”
—Ice-T
“HE WEAVES EXOTIC TALES FROM HIS PAST INTO A TAPESTRY”
—Los Angeles Free Press
“HIS TITLES SHOULD BE TAUGHT EVERYWHERE”
—Esquire
Long White
Con
Picking up where Trick Baby left off we dive into the world of Johnny O’Brien, better known as White Folks. After learning to use his fair skin to his advantage to rise to the top of the Chicago con game, Folks is back for the big money and the big stakes of the long con.
Following the death of his partner and mentor, Blue, Folks takes off for Canada. Having honed his skills and polished his acting, Johnny is done cheating marks out of small money. With a gang of grifters working with him, High Pockets Kate, High ass Marvel and the Vicksburg Kid among them, Folks is after the biggest score of his life.
Cover design by Marc J Cohen
Tango’s face was totally deformed with maniacal rage as he screeched, “Them niggers and that pecker-wood done ripped me off!” He turned to the ebonic hood leader. “Boston, we gonna catch ’em and waste ’em. They headed for the Outer Drive back to that peckerwood in the Loop with my hundred grand!”
Alerted to Tango’s vengeance, Precious searched frantically for Speedy, Upshaw and the loot, finally spotting them leave the bar and come down the sidewalk with a high yellow stunner between them. “Speedy! Watch it! Run!”
Speedy’s eyes were phosphorescent as he halted and stared at Precious for a long moment. Tango’s Buick catapulted into the street and Speedy raced into the alley behind Upshaw. The super fox screamed and fled back toward the bar as the Buick roared into the alley in pursuit.
The Buick smashed into Speedy with a terrible crunch sound. He and the valise flew through the air to bowl over Upshaw. Transmission and brakes howled and squealed as Boston repeatedly backed up and shot the Buick’s wheels forward over the prostrate targets, crushed and crimsoned on the alley floor.
—LONG WHITE CON
Other Titles by Iceberg Slim
Pimp
Trick Baby
The Naked Soul of Iceberg Slim
Airtight Willie & Me
Death Wish
Mama Black Widow
Long White Con
Copyright © 2011 by Robert Beck estate
Cash Money Content™ and all associated logos are trademarks of Cash Money Content LLC.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
First Trade Paperback Edition: January 2012
Book Layout: Peng Olaguera/ISPN
Cover Design: MJCDesign
For further information log onto
www.CashMoneyContent.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011931192
ISBN: 978-1-936399-05-5 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-936399-06-2 ebook
Long White Con
I
was dozing off early in L.A. to store up energy for a series of college rap gigs I’d be off to in a few days. It was several hours before the fetal Seventies would pop from time’s booby-trapped vagina.
I was unaware that fate would, within less than twenty-four hours, pop back into my life the most electric black hustler I’d ever known. How could I know on New Year’s Day I’d have a reunion with an unforgettable friend. I mean, Johnny O’Brien, White Folks, the blue-eyed, white-skinned nigger con man from the Big Windy. Dead, black Blue Howard, his spiritual father and mentor, had turned him out on the con.
How could I know White Folks would furnish his account of adventures more gripping and fascinating than his exploits in the novel
Trick Baby
. How could I, or any black outsider, discover the sacrosanct secrets of the big white con except through White Folks, who played it with a top flight mob.
The phone jangled like the wake-up bells in a cellhouse. I picked up to a silk broad’s voice. A chilling sound really, despite the fact that I had expected its owner to contact me. It was Big Apple rotten, glossy and slick as ermine droppings. But how could I know she was tied in to my reunion with White Folks.
“Mister Beck?” she said. “I’m Josephina, the writer. I’ve arrived, with an inevitable case of jet lag. I’m in Playa Del Rey.”
From the sleazed bowels of the ghetto, I replied, “Welcome to emphysema city. I’ll present you the key at your convenience. Lady, let’s kick off things by dropping the ‘Mister’ tag.”
She faked ingenue flabbergast. “I . . . uh, oh luv! What should I call you?”
I despise phony, pretentious rectums, black and white. I said, “Beck, Bob, Iceberg, Ice, Berg . . . nigger, with love and a smile. Even motherfucker with the light turned down low.”
She handcuffed her breath for an instant. You know, like one of those closet bisexual whores in Long Island emoting snob outrage at the visual atrocity of some lackey peasant sneaking a crap in the shrubbery.
She said, “Iceberg, excuse me for a moment.”
I heard the dulcet bells of crystal toll as some service person arrived to lay out some booze to cushion her jet lag.
I heard her say, “Thank you very much.” Then, to me, “Hi again . . . it’s still early, why not come here? To get acquainted . . . get the prerequisite things out of the way, before we put together the actual nuts and bolts of the interview and your profile for the magazine.”
I said, “Why not tomorrow night? Even daytime ain’t the right time, no time for a nigger to travel across several police division turfs.”
“What?”
“I mean, nighttime is never really the time to even walk Fido out to pee. Some roller in heat, with blood lust, might scribble in a death report. Mine! That he thought I was a dead ringer for a mass murderer at large and that the leash was a piece in the dark.”
She chuckled oddly, like I was one of the Camarillo Picasso’s, in the asylum upstate, who was showing her one of my finger paintings executed in poo-poo on her wall.
She said, “How about tomorrow at noon? Surely you won’t need to take precautions then. Mother of Jesus, you’re paranoid!”
“All right, I’ll see you then. Look, white girl, I wouldn’t pull my ride out of the garage until I turned on my hide-out tape recorder to document roller craziness and maybe my murder. If you meet a nigger in these times who ain’t paranoid, you’ve met a nigger dreaming and bucking the odds to die a natural death. Lady, your mag should have arranged a crash course in the black experience before they assigned you to the project!”
She giggled her New York ass off and gave me the address to her pad before she hung up. The jazzy bitch had turned me off before we started.
Now I’m not a supersonic mouthpiece with a law school college course in logic gracing my portfolio. But believe me, sugar babies, I got a Ph.D. in the logical evaluation of ho character. And I sensed that Josephina was a closet ho to her come-blistered diaphragm. I’ve developed a bloodhound’s acuity for smelling out the stench of ho treachery upcoming. And as I indicated, I’ve assembled the nitro item of paranoia in my survival kit. Understandably, I use that item gingerly. You know, with that twang in the tush care that a herpetologist uses heisting king cobra venom.
I tossed the New Year in on my bed. I mulled why the prestigious white mag for men had selected a broad, a white broad, to wiggle on the lap of an ex nigger pimp across the several states of his rappings gigs. She was suspect as a cobra all right, I decided as I slipped into Josephina-haunted slumber.
Next day at noon, I found myself sitting with the sensual and curvaceous Josephina, in the posh barroom of her hotel. We sat sipping frosted drinks at a table in a corner of the shadowy joint. We had just put together an agreement to have the first formal interview at my pad in the ghetto next day. After that she would accompany me on the rap tour to flesh out my in-depth profile her mag had commissioned her to write.
We had conned each other that we had a viable bedrock of trust and congeniality necessary for a successful project. But I knew before
we boarded a flight in tandem that I was going to find a way to unearth any
sub rosa
motivations behind her saccharine facade. Why the hell
had
they sent a white broad?
