The Long Life of the Short Con

“You can play a fairly long stand in Los Angeles, because it ain’t just one town. It’s a county full of towns, dozens of ‘em. People don’t mix around like they do in New York. But that doesn’t mean you can run wild, kid. You’re a grifter, see? A thief. You’ve got no home, and no friends, and you damned well better not ever forget it. . . . “ --Mintz, an old-time con artist, offering advice to a protege in “The Grifters” by Jim Thompson.

Sometime last Thursday they made their entrance at Tiffany’s in South Coast Plaza. They glided through the doors and into the quiet of the interior, the quiet that spells money. They did not hurry, merely stood and waited to be received.

How much practice went into that entrance? We don’t know, but many hours, surely. If you want to convince the clerks at Tiffany’s that you are Middle Eastern royalty, you better be good. And they were good.

The South Coast Tiffany’s, of course, will never be confused with its big brothers in Manhattan or Beverly Hills. Inescapably, it has taken on the odor of the mall where it resides, signifying it as a minor player. Initially, the South Coast store seems an odd choice for the royalty con: Had the couple possibly erred?

No, they had not. By virtue of its position, the South Coast store necessarily operates with a reduced hauteur. A mall store is a mall store, even if its name is Tiffany’s. It greets its customers more informally, as befits the suburbs, and extends them a shade more trust.

And, in the end, the jewelry has the same price tags.

So the couple, being received, expressed interest in a ring. They were escorted to the viewing room. For their trouble, staff members found their hands warmed with $100 bills.

A nice touch, those $100 bills. Anyone familiar with the world’s rich knows that the $100 bill has become the basic unit of currency. Want a croissant at 2 a.m. in Riyadh? No problem. Slip the bellboy $100. Want the Vuitton bags handled carefully in Manila? A bill should do it.

The Tiffany clerks knew the meaning of $100 bills, like all those who traffic with the rich. And they responded.

“I’m strictly short-con, Lilly. I’m good at it.”

--Roy, an L.A. grifter explaining his occupation to his mom in “The Grifters.”

At the South Coast Tiffany’s, the short con had begun. Having sunk the hook with the $100 bills, the couple suggested that the desired ring should be substantial, a gift for a family friend. As before, they displayed no suggestion of urgency. The rich do not hurry.

One ring after another was brought forward. Diamonds. The couple looked, rejected, and looked some more. For almost an hour they examined the best that Tiffany could offer.

Then finally, an appropriate ring was produced. It held a solitary diamond in a platinum mounting. Five point five six carats. One hundred seventy-two thousand, four hundred and fifty dollars.

“All his thinking was concentrated on them, the time of their fleecing; in keeping them constantly diverted and disarmed. He had nothing left for afterthoughts. They enjoyed their drinks, his were tasteless. Now and then, they looked out the window, remarking on the beauty of the passing scenery--for it was beautiful with the snowy beaches, the green and gold of the groves. But while Roy chimed in with appropriate comments, he did not look where they looked nor see what they saw.”

--Roy working the short con on the train to San Diego.

The man was short, appropriate to the Middle East. About 5 feet, 8 inches. The woman was 5-feet-5. They said they liked the ring very much. They would take it.

What happened next is uncertain. Outside the initial police reports, the police and Tiffany’s have declined to offer details of the fleecing. But somehow the man grew upset and created a disruption. In that brief moment, the clerks directed their attention to the man, away from the ring.

When the moment passed, the couple reaffirmed their decision to take the ring and handed it back to the clerk in its box. Would the clerk wrap it? they asked. They would step out for a quick lunch and then return to pick it up. And pay.

The couple left. The clerk wrapped the box. And waited.

A long time passed. The clerk began to worry. Perhaps the Middle Eastern couple had changed their minds. He unwrapped the box. And, of course, the ring was gone.

“And then she went out of the room and the hotel, and out into the City of Angels.”

--Roy’s mom fleeing into L.A., having pulled off the biggest con of her life.

When the couple walked out the door of Tiffany’s, they had the choice of turning left or right. The right headed them down a long mall corridor, past Prada and Fred. A long corridor where they could be spotted and chased by enraged clerks.

But the left headed them immediately into the milling crowd of Nordstrom. A vast, friendly space where they could lose themselves, perhaps even convert from Middle Eastern to prototypical American.

A place almost as big and convenient and absorbing as the City of Angels itself.