by Maren Foster
THE VIRTUOUS CON
Maren Foster
Two Tails Press
Contents
Title Page
THE VIRTUOUS CON
Part I: The Put-up & The Play
The Put-up
The Put-up
The Put-up
The Put-up
The Put-up
The Put-up
The Put-up
The Put-Up
The Put-Up
The Play
The Play
The Play
The Play
Part II: The Tale & The Convincer
The Tale
The Tale
The Rope
July 14, 1984
December 20, 1986
The Tale
September 23, 1988
September 28, 1988
October 11, 1988
The Tale
The Tale
The Breakdown
October 11, 1988
October 21, 1988
November 10, 1988
November 18, 1988
The Tale
The Tale
February 17, 1989
February 24, 1989
The Convincer
February 26, 1989
The Convincer
The Convincer
March 1, 1989
The Convincer
March 27, 1989
March 30, 1989
Part III: The Send and The Touch
The Breakdown
The Breakdown
The Breakdown
The Breakdown
The Breakdown
April 4, 1989
April 19, 1989
The Breakdown
May 5, 1989
May 28, 1989
The Send
The Send
The Send
The Send
The Touch
May 29, 1989
July 12, 1989
The Breakdown
The Touch
The Send
August 25, 1989
The Send
The Send
The Touch
The Touch
The Blow-off and The Fix
Mom
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I AM ASHLEY CLARKE’S MOTHER
THE VIRTUOUS CON
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, situations, and events portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real people, living or dead, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE VIRTUOUS CON Copyright © 2021 by Maren Foster
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
TWO TAILS PRESS
Chicago, IL
www.twotailspress.com
First published in June 2021.
All inquiries contact [email protected]
Library of Congress control number: 2021910620
ISBN 978-1-7373082-0-1 (trade paperback)
Book and cover design by Karen Magnuson
“The confidence game starts with basic human psychology. From the artist’s perspective, it’s a question of identifying the victim (THE PUT-UP): who is he, what does he want, and how can I play on that desire to achieve what I want? It requires the creation of empathy and rapport (THE PLAY): an emotional foundation must be laid before any scheme is proposed, any game set in motion. Only then does it move to logic and persuasion (THE ROPE); the scheme (THE TALE), the evidence and the way it will work to your benefit (THE CONVINCER), the show of actual profits. And like a fly caught in a spider’s web, the more we struggle, the less able to extricate ourselves we become (THE BREAKDOWN). By the time things begin to look dicey, we tend to be so invested, emotionally and often physically, that we do most of the persuasion ourselves. We may even choose to up our involvement ourselves, even as things turn south (THE SEND), so that by the time we’re completely fleeced (THE TOUCH), we don’t quite know what hit us. The con artist may not even need to convince us to stay quiet (THE BLOW-OFF AND FIX); we are more likely than not to do so ourselves. We are, after all, the best deceivers of our own minds.”
-Maria Konnikova, The Confidence Game
Part I: The Put-up & The Play
February 2015 to October 2016
The Put-up
Friday, February 20, 2015
Evanston, Illinois
Staring at the list of entry level jobs on the student services webpage, I filtered by location: New York, NY. The list shrunk to only a handful of positions.
I thought about my future, which meant I thought about him, remembering, years earlier, when he told me that he was from New York, loved the City, and would definitely move back after graduation. He was a few years older than me. Does he still live there? I googled his name and clicked on news. A number of different stories popped up; there were a handful of Nathan Ellises in the New York area. Based on the news articles, one was middle aged and had coached his son’s little league team to a state championship in 2010. Another was an investment banker in Manhattan. The most recent news about my Nate was a celebratory article in the Westport Gazette about the twenty-something, who had started his own business while in college and was on his way to prodigious success after recently founding a second company. There was a photo of Nate shaking hands with an older guy, both wearing dark, tailored business suits, smiling for the camera. The date on the article was February 3, 2015. That’s less than a month ago. So he is still in New York.
I stared at his Facebook profile: a professional headshot of him above his name and location, New York City, NY. One mutual friend. I clicked to reveal our mutual connection, expecting it to be my roommate from freshman year of college or her boyfriend. Instead, the name beside the picture read “Adam Hart.” My Adam? Next to Adam’s name, it read “53 mutual friends.” Nate knows Adam? They did both go to Penn, but I thought they were in different frats. Are they actually friends? A mutual friend could give me away. Just to be safe I unfriended Adam. He won’t notice, he’s hardly ever on Facebook and I can’t risk Nate connecting the dots.
Nate’s Facebook account was set to the strictest security settings; I couldn’t see anything else. I need to see what he’s been up to. I’ll have to send him a friend request, but he can’t know it’s me.
I grabbed my laptop, pulled up my Facebook profile, and clicked on personal information. I changed my name from Freddie Laurent to Wyn RL. So long to the naïve young woman that Nate once knew. I edited the rest of my profile.
Works at Blank (well, TBD really)
Studied at I deleted the name of my alma mater and left it blank.
Lives in New York City (not yet, but soon enough)
From Blank
Gender Female
Birthday February 15, 1993
Political Views Traditional
Interested In Men
Relationship Single
I snapped a quick selfie, applied a soft filter, and uploaded “Wyn”. I waited until after midnight to “friend” Nate, hoping he was out partying and would think I was a friend of a friend or someone he’d struck up a drunk conversation with at a bar or club. Fingers crossed.
Three months later, after the barrage of interviews and testing that comprise the modern job search, I accepted an entry-level position with an up-and-coming marketing firm in Manhattan. My mother, Vivienne (Vi for short), had generously saved for undergrad, but made it clear that despite her lawyer’s salary, she wouldn’t support me or my sister after college graduation. She rais
ed us on her own and never hid her belief that women should be self-sufficient first, and wives and mothers second. I’d realized as I watched my college classmates and sorority sisters compete for the best grades, the best internships, and the best job offers that I just didn’t have the same drive. It wasn’t that I thought I was too good for work, I just lacked their passion for any specific vocation, or for money, prestige, or power. I couldn’t see the allure of having a career. For me working was a means, not an end; a matter of necessity (for the time being at least), not a calling. I’d be making just enough money to survive in New York City, just long enough hopefully to be married, have children, and if I was lucky, get to stay home with the kids.
I packed up my things and Vi drove me to the airport on a Thursday morning in late June. I was a little surprised to see her tear up when we hugged in the departures level. She caught me off guard, handing me a personal check just as I turned toward security.
“Call me when you get there,” she yelled after me. “Love you, Freddie.” I kept walking as if I didn’t hear her.
“Freddie” was short for Wynafreda, which my mom staunchly defended throughout my formative years. Ugh, Wyn-a-fred-a, yuck! Every time I pestered her about what on Earth had led her to name her daughter Wynafreda, she maintained that she thought it was pretty, but she only invoked its complete ugliness when she wanted to get my attention, knowing full well that I hate it.
As I waited to board my flight to New York City I checked Facebook again. Nate still hadn’t accepted my friend request. I’d done a thorough online search for any insights into his life, habits, or routine, but there was nothing of note. Come on, accept my request!
I boarded my flight with the basics I would need for my new, adult life: a few brand new business suits, a cluttered make-up bag, and my three favorite pairs of heels. Awaiting me in New York City was a room in a three-bedroom apartment with two girls from my sorority, and my best friend and almost high school sweetheart, Adam Hart.
The squat 1960s faded-tan-brick building paled in comparison to its more mature red-brick neighbors. My roommates were both out of town when I arrived, so the building manager agreed to let me in. As instructed, I met him at the main entrance. Rather squirrely looking, the manager gave me a set of keys, warned me not to make copies, and showed me inside. The apartment was in Hell’s Kitchen, on the second floor of a four-story walk-up, with a tiny galley kitchen, no dishwasher or washing machine. My bedroom barely fit a single bed and a child-sized dresser, but it did have a tiny closet, which I knew was a luxury. I could just barely afford the rent. I’d be living in the shabbiest building on a very respectable block. I sent Vi a few pictures of the apartment and she seemed pleased. Perhaps, to her surprise, I’d become the independent woman she had always hoped I would.
I cashed Vi’s check and went to the corner store to buy the basics: a carton of eggs, loaf of bread, box of cereal, and milk. I’d use the rest of her gift to take the sting off first month’s rent.
The next day I woke up early and ate in silence, staring out the window at an overcast sky. Three more days until I start work, and just one more thing I have to do: my transformation. I ventured out for a walk and to find a pharmacy. I’d been to New York City once when I was young and then again in high school, but each of those times I had been with Vi and my older sister Alicia, following their lead. I remembered Vi taking us on long walks through offbeat neighborhoods. She always seemed to know someone to stop in on and visit: former colleagues or classmates from law school.
It was unseasonably cool for late June, but New Yorkers were out walking, carrying groceries, pushing strollers, determined to enjoy a long-overdue summer. I wandered the crowded streets, acutely aware that I was alone.
I texted Adam, “I’m here!”
His response came moments later, “Show you around tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sounds like fun,” I replied.
Adam and I grew up together. Our moms were best friends from college and had conspired at every opportunity to set us up. Photo albums documented shared family vacation and complementary Halloween costumes. From a young age we were enrolled in nearly all the same extracurriculars, save football and ballet. In high school Adam was tall, lean, and athletic. I was 5’4”, petite, and first chair in the orchestra. We were fourteen the first time he tried to kiss me. I remember it clearly. I pulled away awkwardly, thinking that a failed romance with my best friend might rob me of the extended family that Vi had worked so hard to cultivate. In response Adam ignored me for weeks, but eventually he gave up and we fell back into our usual routine.
After our senior prom, laying together on a blanket at the beach he kissed me and I let him, but when he began to pull at the zipper on my dress I told him to stop. It was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. I knew I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship and we would be going separate ways to colleges in different states. The odds of us working out were slim and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. Instead we fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Three years later, in the summer between our junior and senior years of college, we traveled around Europe together. At the end of the trip, as we sat sipping drinks, the sun setting behind the Basilica di San Marco, he mused that if we were both single at thirty we should get married, have kids, and live next door to our parents. Thirty was still a ways off, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming about a fairytale life with him, raising a few kids with the help of our parents. Despite my hesitations in the past, somewhere deep inside, I truly believed that we belonged together and would end up together eventually.
On my way back to the apartment I stopped at a pharmacy and bought a box of hair dye. My light auburn hair was the kind of reddish-blonde that looked unnatural. It wasn’t uncommon for people to accuse me of lying when I said it was real. Vi and Ali both had rich, chestnut brown hair. Growing up, I felt like the odd one out, which at times was uncomfortable, but also garnered me a lot of attention. I chose a box called “Mocha” and paid the cashier.
Back in my room I massaged the harsh-smelling mixture onto my scalp and down the length of my long hair. I twisted it into a pile on top of my head, set a timer, and used a Q-tip to apply a few drops to my eyebrows. I washed out the chemicals and towel dried my hair, examining the result in the dull, scratched up mirror above the bathroom sink. I nodded. My skin was less olive-colored than Vi’s and Ali’s, but the dark brown tone worked well with my fair coloring.
The Put-up
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Evanston, Illinois
Adam told me to meet him in the park outside the 34th St – Hudson Yards station. I snuck up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He turned and looked at me.
“Who the hell are you?” he teased.
“You don’t like it?” I asked, flipping my long brown hair from one shoulder to the other.
“Why? I like your real hair.”
“I needed a change.” So that Nate won’t recognize me.
“I don’t get it.”
“New city, new look!”
“Whatever.”
“So, where are you taking me today?” I asked.
“Can’t tell you. It’s a secret,” he said as he took my hand and pulled me behind him.
He walked quickly down 34th Street and I struggled to keep up. I clasped his hand tightly as we passed run-down food carts and a line of beleaguered travelers waiting to board inter-city buses. Half way down the block, Adam pulled me through an open gate onto a walkway where beautiful foliage partially blocked the view of a sprawling truck yard.
“Slow down! You forget how short I am sometimes,” I said. “What is this place?”
“It’s the High Line,” he said.
“Some view,” I teased, observing the parking lot below us.
“This is just the start. It gets better. I promise.”
“Uh huh, hopefully.”
“It opened a few years ago. I think trains used to run up here,” he said,
pointing to the steel tracks still embedded in the foot bridge. “Anyhow, I thought we could walk the whole thing with a couple of stops along the way.”
“Okay, sure, but please slow down.”
“Yeah, sure.”
We walked over the parking lot to the first real viewpoint. I leaned against the railing. “What the heck is that?” I pointed to what looked like a woven vase rising out of a lush, green oasis.
“Oh, that’s The Vessel. I don’t think it has a purpose. It’s just a tourist attraction. The views from the top must be nice, but I’m sure it costs an arm and a leg.”
“Whoa, look at all the trains right there.” I pointed down, below the trail to the underbelly of the city. Adam had come up close to me, leaning against the railing on his forearms.
“Yeah, crazy, right?”
We watched as a passenger train pulled out and rolled down the tracks below us. I turned to look at him and our eyes met. He smiled and leaned a little closer as if he might kiss me. I smiled back and closed my eyes in anticipation.
“Come on. We’ll never get to the stops along the way if you’re gonna be such a gaping tourist,” he teased.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m just in awe of this city.”
“You and everyone else. Come on.”
We continued around the rail yard, weaving past families with children, couples embracing, and inspired amateur photographers. As we continued on toward Chelsea I wondered at the mix of historic and modern; the vintage brick warehouse buildings and garages amidst a maze of rooftop ducts and faded grey concrete. Invigorated by the possibilities inherent in the unknown I grabbed Adam’s hand.
“So, when do you start your job?” he asked.
“On Monday.”
“You nervous?”
“Nah, it’s just a job.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But I’m excited to experience New York City with you,” I said.
“Yeah, please don’t think you’re going to drag me to every museum in the City though. Museums are boring!”