The Scam

Joey smiled. Anyone as good as he was with a computer ought not to be working for peanuts. And so he dreamed up his great scam. There were weeks when it didn’t pay off; but when it worked, Joey would usually clear more than thirty thousand tax-free dollars and after four years of this, he had banked nearly three million bucks. Pretty good, he thought, for a thirty-year-old computer nerd with a bad haircut.

Still, those two close calls with local bunko squads were unsettling. Joey decided to work the scam once or twice more and then retire to the Caribbean.

Most top computer professionals would make good hackers if they chose. Joey effortlessly hacked his way into big city dating-service data banks. It was a simple matter to collect thousands of e-mail addresses of young single women. Then he sent out his “racetrack” e-mails. He chose horse races with no more than six entries, divided his list into six groups, and then recommended a different horse to each group. One-sixth of his list would get a tip that turned out to be a winner. Then he would divide those winners into six groups and e-mail again.

His thousands of names produced a large number of “Get lost!” replies, and the remaining list was quickly reduced to a mere five or six names. But by that time, those ladies would have had four winners in a row. They would believe. At the end of this week, Joey would be flying to Chicago for another payday.

Julie Parr had her own priorities. She was applying all the suggested strategies for meeting Mr. Right. She lived in an apartment complex renting mainly to young singles. She spent hours monitoring Web chat rooms. She signed up with several internet match-making services. She was a very attractive young woman, but somehow Mr. Right kept evading her.

A large part of Julie’s problem was her definition of Mr. Right. He, Julie insisted, would have to be both very rich and very generous. There were no other requirements. She had dated a succession of handsome, personable, but relatively penniless guys. She had even dated a few millionaires, but they were invariably stingier than the paupers.

Julie worked for an insurance company in downtown Chicago. She was making a good living but certainly not getting rich. Then one night she received one of the most intriguing e-mails she had ever seen. It was from somebody calling himself “Old Joe.”

“Hello, ‘Princess Charming.’ I saw your profile, and you are a very interesting lady. No, I am not a prospecting for a date. I am a seventy-year-old invalid. But I may be able to help you with money. Does this sound like a scam? Here’s a test. Tomorrow, the fifth race at Arlington will be won by Free Safety. No, don’t bet on the race. Just check the sports page for the results. Farewell.”

After work the next day, Julie picked up the final edition of the Chicago Tribune. Free Safety had won the fifth race at Arlington Park. It brought a smile to her pretty face.

That evening a new e-mail from Old Joe said:

“Hello, Princess! Go to the Off Track and put thirty dollars on Blank Check to win in tomorrow’s third race. No, I have no crystal ball. It’s much simpler than that. In Chicago some horse races are fixed, and I stumbled onto the key to it. Farewell.”

The following day, the Tribune declared Blank Check the winner of the third at Arlington. Julie felt a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. She was busy at her computer that evening, checking bank accounts and airline and hotel reservations. Then this e-mail came in:

“Hello Princess! Put some real money on My Elevator in the sixth tomorrow. I wish I could bet, but it’s too risky. If they find out I have the key, I’m a dead man. Anyhow, let me know how you’re doing. Farewell.”

Steady Freddy, not My Elevator, won handily in the sixth. But Julie e-mailed Old Joe to say she had won eleven hundred dollars on My Elevator thanks to him. Julie had never had any scruples about telling fibs.

That evening Old Joe instructed her to bet heavily on Misty Pool in the sixth and to e-mail him the results. At the end of the following afternoon, Julie learned that the winner was not Misty Pool but Heavenly Daze. However, in her follow-up e-mail to Joe, Julie declared she bet on Heavenly Daze and had won ten thousand dollars.

Later that evening, Old Joe’s E-mail took on a new tone.

“Princess, be at Arlington Park tomorrow. Bet the farm and the ranch on Meow Gal in the third. Stand in front of the Paddock Club restaurant after the race. Wear a flower in your hair. My nephew will find you and ask you if you know “Old Joe.” Then the two of you will cash your winning tickets, and he will take one-half the winnings. Please e-mail me that you will comply. Otherwise, I’ll have to find a new partner.”

Julie e-mailed her agreement with this plan.

The next day she left work early, pleading a severe headache. In an hour and a half she was a registered guest at the Sheraton, a hotel located next to the Arlington Park race track. Then she waited in the corridor on the fourth floor. After about an hour, a pudgy fellow carrying a briefcase left the elevator and started to unlock the door to 433.

“Wow,” Julie said. “By the look on your face, you must be a big winner.”

“Huh? Uh, what?” the man stammered.

“Come on, friend,” Julie said looping her arm through his. “You are going to buy me a drink.”

Joey had never had a real date before. And Julie didn’t seem to think of him as a nerdy geek. She seemed to know him—what music he liked, his favorite foods, where he shopped. She was uncanny. He finally got the courage to ask her to go to Bermuda with him.

“I’d love to, Joey,” Julie said, “but don’t you think we should get married first?”

The next day Joey and Julie took out a marriage license at City Hall. And then Julie dropped by the insurance company and quit her job as Director of Computer Services.