“Uh-uh/‘ I declined. ”This check is for $1,400. We agreed on $1,000, and while $400 isn’t that important, a deal is a deal.“
“I agree,” she said. “So endorse it. I’ll give you the $400.” She dug in her purse and came up with a thin sheaf of $100s, from which she took four and handed them to me. I endorsed the check and handed it to her.
I have the sequel from what reporters call “reliable sources.” Several days later, when her bank informed her the cashier’s check was a counterfeit, she called the Dade County Sheriff’s Department, furious. She eventually was contacted by O’Riley.
“Why’d he give you this check?” asked O’Riley.
“That doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “He gave it to me, and it’s bad, and I want the bastard caught.”
“I know,” said O’Riley. “But I also need to know how this man thinks, so I can catch him. Your description fits Frank Abagnale, but he’s never given any bad paper to an individual. He doesn’t even pass bad paper in retail stores. Why, all of a sudden, is he giving a square John, and a beautiful woman at that, a worthless check for $1,400? What was the purpose?”
O’Riley is something of a con artist himself. He obtained the full story from her. “I don’t mind his getting a free piece/‘ she concluded bitterly. ”Hell, I’ve given it away before. But that bastard conned me out of $400 cash. That I resent.“
I have always agreed with O’Riley’s assessment of the matter. We both got screwed.
However, her session with me was probably more delightful and less costly than the encounters I had with the two bankers before leaving Miami. I ripped them off for more than $20,000 each. I also flimflammed the Fontaine-bleau by paying my bill with a counterfeit cashier’s check that yielded me several hundred dollars change.
I put the Rolls in a storage garage and sent a telegram to the California leasing firm informing them of its whereabouts. Cheryl was right. It was a lovely car and deserved better than being abandoned to the elements and vandals.
I holed up in Sun Valley, keeping a low profile and an honest demeanor, for the winter. As spring approached, I flew back to New York, set myself up in a brownstone flat in an elegant section of Manhattan and dropped “reminder” notes to each of my prospective “stews.” The replies I received assured me that my fictional status as a Pan Am promotional executive was still believed, so I proceeded to fulfill my fleshly fantasy. I knew the name of the Hollywood firm that designed and manufactured all of the stewardess uniforms for Pan Am. I flew to Hollywood and, wearing my Pan Am pilot’s garb, called on the fashion firm. I presented a phony letter of introduction to the woman in charge of Pan Am’s account, detailed the fictional public relations tour of Europe and had my explanation accepted at face value. “We’ll have the ensembles ready in six weeks,” she said. “I presume you also want luggage for each of the girls?”
“Of course,” I said.
I stayed in the Los Angeles area while the girls’ clothing was being fashioned, attending to other facets necessary to the escapade. I paid a call to the Pan Am stores department at the Los Angeles Airport, dressed as a pilot, and picked up all the hat and uniform emblems they’d need.
I’d had all the girls send me one-inch-square color photographs of themselves. I used the photographs to make up fake Pan Am ID cards, similar to mine, and listing the status of each as “flight attendant.”
When the uniforms were ready, I picked them up personally, driving a rented station wagon with counterfeit Pan Am logos on the doors, and paid for the uniforms by signing an invoice for them.
In late May I sent each of the girls a letter, enclosing an airline ticket for each-tickets I’d bought and paid for with cash-and telling them to assemble in the lobby of the Los Angeles airport on May 26.
The gathering of my eaglets was one of the boldest and more flamboyant productions of my poseur performances. I went to one of the more luxurious inns surrounding the airport and booked a room for each of the girls, and also engaged, for the day after their arrival, one of the hotel’s conference rooms. I made all the bookings in Pan Am’s firm name, although I paid cash for the facilities. I satiated the curiosity of the assistant manager who handled the transaction by explaining this was not regular Pan Am business but a “special feature” of the airline’s promotion department.
On the morning the girls were to arrive, I donned my Pan Am pilot’s uniform and visited Pan Am’s operational department at the airport, seeking out the manager of the carrier’s car pool.
“Look, I’ve got eight stewardesses coming in at two P.M. today on a special assignment, and I need some transportation to get them to the hotel,” I said. “You think you can help me out?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got a regular crew wagon available. I’ll pick them up myself. You gonna be there?”
“I’ll just meet you here at one-thirty and go with you/‘ I said. ”You need me to sign anything?“
“Nah, I got you covered/ Jetman.” He grinned. “Just have one my size.”
The girls showed up on time and were duly impressed with the gleaming Pan Am crew wagon, which was actually just an oversized station wagon. The pool chief and I loaded their luggage and he drove us all to the hotel, where he again assisted in unloading their luggage and getting the girls situated. I offered to buy him a drink after we were through, but he declined. “I like your kind of duty,” he said, grinning. “Just call on me anytime.”
The next morning I assembled the girls in the conference room, where I passed out their ID cards and presented them with their uniforms and luggage. They squealed with delight as they inspected the ensembles and the luggage, each piece of which was monogrammed with the owner’s name and Pan Am’s logo.
There were more squeals of joy as I outlined our itin-nerary: London, Paris, Rome, Athens, Geneva, Munich, Berlin, Madrid, Oslo, Copenhagen, Vienna and other European spas. I quieted them down and took on the air of a stern father.
“Now, this sounds like a lot of fun, and I hope it will be, but we’re on serious business, and I won’t put up with any nonsense,” I told them. “I have the authority to discharge any one of you for misconduct or for goofing off, and I will send you home if I have to. Let’s get one thing straight-I’m the boss and you will live by my instructions and follow the policies I outline. I think you’ll find my rules eminently fair, and you should have no trouble following them, and therefore no trouble at all.
“First off, you’ll notice that each of you is identified as a stewardess on your ID card. As far as the personnel of the hotels where we’ll be staying, and the photographers with whom we’ll be working are concerned, you are stewardesses. But we will all travel as civilians, and that includes flying or driving, and I will tell you when you are to wear the uniforms. You’re on a very desirable tour, duty that could cause some dissension and jealousy among our regular cadre of flight attendants, male and female. So if you do have occasion to mingle with regular flight crews, just say you’re with our New York public relations office, on a special assignment, and answer as few questions about your actual status as possible. If anyone presses, refer him or her to me.
“Now, you’ll be paid every two weeks, a regular company paycheck. It’s very difficult to cash a check in Europe, so when I give you your paycheck, if you’ll just endorse it, I’ll cash it at the local Pan Am office or at one of the banks or hotels with which we’ve made arrangements.
“Now I know some of you are wondering why you can’t just send your checks home to be deposited. There’re two reasons. First, the checks will probably be issued on one of our foreign accounts. The company likes the checks to be cashed in Europe. Second is the exchange rate. If you cash a check yourself, it will be cashed at the current exchange rate and you’ll usually end up losing money. So I’ll cash your checks, give you the cash and then if you want to send any money home, you can send a money order or a cashier’s check home. Does anyone have any questions?”