“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Chapel Market, where you find real bargains for real people.” A few people stopped. Others glanced over as they walked by. Some slowed their pace a little. Remembering a lesson from my youth, I kept talking as if a thousand people had stopped to hear. “Here at the market, you know that you are guaranteed to find the very best prices for the finest merchandise. This isn’t Oxford Street. This isn’t Regent Street where you pay as much for the name on the bag as you do for what’s inside!” More people had stopped and the crowd was starting to fill out.
I reached into the first box and pulled out a personal grooming kit, sealed inside clear, brittle plastic. “Come a little closer, there’s room for everyone. Here at the market we guarantee the very best bargains and, this morning I’m here to offer you all a deal you will never find at those big shops on the high street. Who knows what this is? It’s a men’s grooming kit. Ladies, this little kit is sure to clean up those dirty fingernails, trim those beards, and shave that stubble. It comes in its own case and is ready to wrap for Christmas or that special birthday boy. How much would you pay for something like this downtown? Fifty? Twenty? If you’re really, really lucky, maybe fifteen quid. Here, at the market the price is—wait for it—two pounds!”
That got their attention. I could see people reaching for purses and pockets but I wasn’t finished. I pulled a women’s grooming kit from the box and put that beside the other one. “We also have a lady’s kit for the same low price and, as part of today’s special promotion we are selling both—both of these kits for the same low price of just two pounds. That’s two pounds for both kits! Put your hands in the air if you have two pounds and, remember, we guarantee you’ll be satisfied and we guarantee you’ll be happy!”
Hands flew up as we passed out oversized bags with two kits already inside. I pulled another box toward me as the crowd eyed the boxes of expensive merchandise still stacked against the back wall of the van.
“Now, let me ask you something.” I was getting into it now, finding my rhythm. “Who would say that two grooming sets for just two pounds is a fantastic bargain? Show me your hands. Now, here at the market, we want to be sure everyone is happy so, if you are happy with your purchase, put your hands in the air and shout ‘I’m Happy!’” Everyone does. More people join the crowd; I turn to my assistant and say “Alex, everyone who has their hand in the air—give them their money back!”
The crowd was baffled as everyone who bought a kit was given a full refund. I pull out a set of twenty pens from another box. They look expensive behind the plastic wrapping—the kind a businessman might carry. I pull one from my pocket to use as an example.
“Now, I want you to look at this. You’ve all seen pens like this. This is a high quality writing pen that would be at home in any suit pocket or briefcase. It’s a perfect gift for anyone and, if you buy it on the high street it would easily cost you fifty pounds. I’m not asking fifty pounds. I’m not even asking twenty or ten! The price you pay today is just five pounds but I’m not just going to give you one—I’m going to give you twenty! That’s right, twenty beautiful pens—twenty fantastic gifts—for just five pounds! And remember, I guarantee satisfaction and I guarantee you will be happy!”
The crowd blushed with money as everyone with a bag held out their cash in return for the large plastic packages, filled with pens. We even gave out grooming kits to anyone who missed them first time around.
“Twenty pens for a fiver? Where else but the market do you get a deal like that? Now, remember, I guarantee satisfaction and I promise you will be happy so let me hear it: Who’s happy?” The crowd shouts back and more people gather to see what’s going on. “Put your hands in the air if you’re happy, keep your hands up. Alex, if they’re happy, give them their money back!”
Five-pound notes were passed back to everyone. I suddenly found myself wishing we had more people to manage the crowd, but I pressed on and removed a large glass vase from its box.
“This is something you have all seen before, probably in the bigger shops—the ones with the biggest prices. It’s a vase, perfect for all those times your husband buys you flowers.” The crowd laughs. I noticed that Alex was still distributing five-pound notes from the last round of sales. The crowd was bigger than we had anticipated and it crossed my mind that we might be in serious trouble if the engine didn’t start or we couldn’t make a clean getaway. “This is the real deal, made from genuine Italian glass!” I snapped my finger against the cheap vase to create a ringing sound that seemed to prove something—but it didn’t matter; I could see that they already wanted to buy.
“Who wouldn’t expect to pay sixty or even a hundred pounds for this in one of those shops? Not at the market! Here, we guarantee satisfaction and we guarantee to make you happy. Who has ten pounds for me?” This time the hands were in the air instantly and Alex started passing large colorful boxes containing cheap, poorly made vases. Again I settled the crowd down and asked “Who’s happy?” The crowd shouted back “I’m Happy!” and I smiled, getting deeper into the role. I shouted back “We guarantee satisfaction and we guarantee that you will be happy—Alex, give them their money back!”
This time I waited until everyone had their money before reaching back for a handheld game system. Alex pointed to another box, and with the crowd watching, I pretended to remember something. Replacing the game, I reached into another large box and produced a wristwatch inside an impressive presentation case (in actual fact, it was cheap “slum,” a lookalike of more expensive watches that cost less than one US dollar when bought in large quantities).
“Ladies and gentlemen, I almost forgot one of our biggest bargains. Now, this is a gentleman’s watch and we have several different styles. You might recognize this one, it’s exactly the same as those watches you see in magazines and sold to people with more money than sense. This is not one of those watches—but you’d have to be an expert to know the difference! This very same model is sold less than a mile away for over sixty pounds and I have to admit that, even for that price, it’s a real bargain. Here at the market we are here to give you the very best products at the very best prices. If I told you this was forty pounds you’d think these were stolen—they’re not but when you hear the price you’re going to be stealing these from me. Not eighty, not sixty, and not even forty. These watches, in the case, with the guarantee . . . are twenty pounds and remember, we guarantee you will be happy.”
Hands filled with money shot toward us. Alex fought to take all the cash and hand out the watches. Before we knew it, every watch we had was gone and we could have sold many, many more. Alex’s apron was stuffed with twenty-pound notes. I turned back to the crowd. “Isn’t that what coming to the market is about? A watch like that for twenty pounds? Who is satisfied?” Hands fill the air. “Who’s happy?”
Everyone shouts back “I’m happy!” and I reached up and grabbed the handle for the shutter.
“If you’re all happy,” I said, “then we’re happy!”
I pulled down the shutter with a crash, sealing us inside the van. The engine started and we drove quickly away leaving the stunned crowd behind us, our pockets full of money. I looked around at the empty boxes. If we had more merchandise, we could have sold it all. If we were doing this for a living, we’d be making money hand over fist—but this was not my biggest revelation that day. One of the most important lessons I would ever learn about cons was yet to come, when we returned to face the crowd and give them back their money.
This was not my first experience working a pitch. For two years, in my late teens, I spent many weeks and months on the road following “DW,” a professional pitchman (also known as a “Grafter”), as he set up new pitches then left me to continue selling while he found new locations to work. That product was the infamous Svengali Deck, a special pack of cards that could, in the right hands, perform miracles. Cards can be made to appear in any location, the deck could be seen to be normal or, with a riffle of the cards, transf
orm so that every card was exactly the same. Each deck came with two free additional tricks for reading minds and winning money, all presented in an oversized copy of the card box.
At first, I was reluctant to follow DW’s orders. I didn’t want to follow his presentation to the letter and only perform the tricks according to a strict script. Like most young men in their late teens, I thought I knew better, so I ignored those instructions and developed my own routine, which I was much happier with—until it became painfully obvious that I wasn’t selling enough decks to cover my expenses, let alone make a profit. Finally, I wised up and returned to the pitch that DW had originally taught me. Having built my confidence over a couple of weeks, the pitch was suddenly much more effective. People began to respond and sales increased sharply. It proved to be a wise move because DW returned one day, unannounced, to watch me work. Later, he took me for lunch and gave me some important advice: “This is not a magic show. It’s a game and the name of the game is to make them want what we’re selling. If you show off, you lose.”
It’s a game
I remembered that, so when DW taught me how to build a crowd, how to hold them, and apply subtle pressure to make a sale, I listened. He told me, “If you learn, you’ll earn” and I did both. Eventually I landed back in Scotland and ran a pitch for many months. I gained a great deal of experience about how to speak to an audience, work a crowd, and press their buttons for the desired response. Ever since, I’ve had a real appreciation for grafters. I’ve learned to observe how they construct presentations, layering every conceivable positive aspect of a product until the crowd is smothered in reasons to buy. I have studied how they manipulate groups of people into reacting without giving them a chance to think or consider their options. I’ve seen pitches for knives, chopping devices, miracle cleaning products, cookers, household gadgets, Saran Wrap dispensers, magic tricks, sunglasses, and even towels.
Mark Mason, a master pitchman, told me that towels were his favorite pitch of all time and that he would drive hundreds of miles to make a killing pitching towel sets at weekly markets. When I spoke to him, he slipped effortlessly into his old routine, verbally recounting each type of towel, the color options, the sizes, the thickness and quality of the cotton, that they always “washed soft” and that, for the same low price, they would receive two sets of any color they desired—and a third free set of white towels. “You know, for guests!”
There is a real art to the pitch that I’ve always admired. A great pitch can be an excellent bit of theater where the product is the star of the show. Often, the same item can be bought cheaper elsewhere, but it’s an honest enough game most of the time. It graduates to being a scam when the result is not what the buyer expects, the crowd is manipulated by dirty tricks, or the seller lies or deceives to secure a sale.
A crooked pitch presents people with items they don’t really need in such a way that almost anyone might be convinced to buy. Some might argue that the pitch we made from the back of that truck in Chapel Market barely qualifies as a con game since each individual item was sold in exactly the same way that a legitimate pitchman might sell it. This may be true, but a pitch becomes a scam when lies are presented and people are manipulated in order to take their money. This simple version of a Jam Auction, from the back of our truck, was just that. We hooked the crowd with apparently free merchandise and the unspoken promise of better items to come. It was almost a legitimate pitch but these small deceptions made it cross that fine line.
Jam auctions or Mock Auctions have been around for a very long time. In the late 1920s Walter B. Gibson published a series of newspaper articles concerning con games or “bunco” that proved to be both enlightening and entertaining. One of those articles, “Inside Information on Jam Auctions,” described the pitch scam that we pulled in Chapel Market. When speaking publicly I often related this scam so it was naturally one of the first con games I wrote for the TV show. People always laughed when I revealed the punchline to the scam but, as it turned out, I really didn’t understand it at all.
Jam auctions are rarely subtle affairs. In the UK they are usually called run-out joints, where crowds of people are attracted to a windowless salesroom, often in the back of empty high street stores. Victims are tempted by sales notices promising high-end merchandise for incredibly low prices. It may seem too good to be true, but curiosity will cause many to come along and see what’s on offer. Once everyone is inside, the long process of wearing down people’s defenses begins. Naturally, the scammers do not advertise that the sale will take upward of ninety minutes, nor that it will be held in a crowded room without natural light and only one apparent way out. But, of course, these things make people easier to control and are essential elements of the scam.
A modern run-out joint begins once everyone is sealed inside the auction room. A barker, standing on an elevated podium, begins by showing the types of products on offer: game systems, televisions, Blu-Ray players, and so on. He tells the crowd about the auctioneer who will eventually conduct the sale and conditions the crowd to bid quickly so they don’t miss out on the best bargains. In the sales I’ve witnessed (before I became recognizable from television and was routinely ejected), no actual merchandise is sold during this phase of the scam. Instead, the role of the auctioneer is built up and the crowd’s anticipation is fueled by the sight of the “flash” (products used as bait).
Once the build-up is concluded, the auctioneer arrives: usually a powerful character, he is sometimes funny and charming, other times rough and forceful in his presentation. The sale often begins with a couple of items quickly shown and offered for incredibly low prices. Someone in the crowd always bids immediately and gets passed his/her merchandise for examination and to confirm that the item is genuine. The PlayStation might be real; the person buying it certainly is not. He or she is a shill (sometimes referred to as a “capper”) whose job is to snap up the real stuff and keep the marks from winning anything of actual value.
After these items are “sold,” the shill opens the box and examines the goods for the benefit of the people close by. The fact that these items are genuine gets quickly absorbed into the crowd; more hands jump into the air each time, but those people always lose out to other lucky buyers who are somehow quicker. This process continues in various forms with all sorts of stories and scenarios played out for the crowd who, by the end of this charade, has been on their feet for well over an hour. Finally, some wonderful product is introduced in an impressive box, filled with solid-looking items familiar to the crowd, now hungry for a bargain.
I’ve seen many items sold this way but one of the most memorable was an SLR “Olympic” camera. The name of the camera itself was deliberately close to “Olympus,” one of the finest manufacturers in the world, and the box was red and white and much like packaging used by that brand. As a keen photographer, I immediately identified these deliberate similarities, but to the other people watching, it must have looked like the real deal. From my position at the edge of the crowd (hiding my face from the bouncers), it certainly looked the part and I could feel people preparing to bid quickly. This is when the procedure changed; the room was about to get stung.
The auctioneer repackaged the camera and placed the box in front of him as he recounted the features and the enormous prices being charged for cameras just like this one “down the street.” This time, he did not invite bids or call for hands in the air. Instead, he named a price and asked anyone with enough cash to hold it in the air to prove they were serious bidders. Fistfuls of money shot up into the air. Suddenly, people from the back of the auctioneer’s storage room pushed their way into the crowd holding laminated coupons as the auctioneer barked instructions at them to collect the cash. Each buyer was handed a coupon in return for their money and told to keep holding it in the air.
In the back, boxes of cameras were being prepared for distribution as the man on the podium held everyone’s attention, congratulating everyone who was holding a coupon. A few strag
glers were admonished for not taking advantage of this opportunity. Most eventually conceded and handed over their money. One of the helpers leaned into me as I stood to the side, but I held my ground, refusing to be bullied. Behind me, I could hear the doors to the street being opened, and without warning, the auction was over. People were traded red and white camera boxes for coupons as they were hustled up the stairs and onto the street. I was pushed along but managed to get a good look at the speed with which coupon holders were given their merchandise and sent packing.
Outside, I watched as the shills made their way down an alley to rejoin their fellow hustlers. Meanwhile, the honest victims were left to discover the true value of their purchase. Each camera was nothing more than a cheap, brittle shell with a limp plastic lens. A working mechanism could be detected but I doubt it would produce an image of any value. People became upset; some seemed ashamed. Most victims just walked away, accepting their losses. At the doorway, a couple of people tried to complain. Out of earshot, I couldn’t hear what they were told by the imposing doorman but I knew the story all too well. All sales were final. No refunds. There was a sign to that effect, and if they didn’t like what they bought, that was their problem. There certainly was a sign that explained these rules in accordance with the exact letter of the law. It was slightly bigger than a postcard and pasted to the wall behind the crowd as they watched the auction. The only real opportunity to notice it was when everyone was being forced to leave and by that time, of course, it was already too late.
During pre-production for The Real Hustle, we infiltrated a full-scale run-out joint armed with hidden voice recorders. As was typical by this point, I was immediately spotted and politely asked to leave. Alex remained unchallenged and returned two hours later with the recording and a brand new camera. We constructed our own script based on that auction and sold the same camera, and a dozen just like it, from an empty shop on Manchester’s High Street. Afterward we interviewed everyone, while I took extensive notes about the experience.
The Art of the Con Page 2