William Bankier
The  Big  Bunco

When you are scriptwriters for a TV sit-com series and you're
bogged down on page 10 of episode number 52 and the dead-
line was yesterday, you might feel pretty desperate. Desperate
enough to do something really wild. Well, that's how writer Joe
Huck and idea-man Stan Percival felt when Stan dreamed up
that impossible dream. Imagine one of the oldest con games in
the history of bunco, but all dressed up in ultra-mod clothes
and don't forget what P. T. Barnum said . . .

y have a crazy partner. Which is not so bad most of the time be-
1. cause our job is writing scripts for a television situation-comedy
series called "Rooms Without Doors" and when you're sweating to
come up with a funny premise for episode number 46 and the
deadline is yesterday afternoon, a little crazy can be a good thing.
"Stan, we are dead," I will say from my place at the typewriter,
little strands of spiderweb stretching from my cramped fingers to
the dusty keys. "That rumbling sound you hear above us is clods
of earth hitting the lid of our coffin."
And then Stan Percival will heave up his 260 pounds from the
folding canvas deck chair, which is the only other piece of furni-
ture in our cubbyhole office, and he will say, "No, Joe. No. We are
not dead. We are on the verge of a great idea. All I have to do 'is
say it."
He is looming over me, six feet four inches, his hands working
the air like clay, and I know he doesn't have an idea, not in his
conscious mind anyway. But there is a look on his face like a man
who has a chicken bone in his throat and is trying to work it back
up and spit it out. Stan's eyes are bulging, his lips are pursing,
and there are beads of sweat on his big round face.
"And this is the idea," he says. "Cousin Mary is locked in a
church overnight." It is insane; there is no reason for a church to
be mentioned, but I keep listening. "She doesn't know how to get
out but she has a bottle of brandy with her because she'd been to
the liquor store to get supplies for their anniversary party. Back
home Uncle Walt misinterprets a phone call because he's lost his
hearing aid, so he thinks she's been kidnaped. The police are
called in which gets Larry uptight because he's expecting a deliv-
ery of forged lottery tickets. And at the end Mary will be up in
the bell tower playing I'll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time'
with her feet, which tips Larry off because this is their song."
The whole thing is sheer madness, but I start laughing and I
start typing and pretty soon we have a script. Which is why I say
a little crazy can be a good thing. Sometimes but not always. Be-
cause the time Stan got it into his head that we should sell some-
body the Jacques Cartier Bridge was something else. And that is
the time I propose to tell you about.
It all began one morning in August when Stan arrived late. We
had quit work at nine o'clock the night before, solidly blocked
and frustrated at page ten of a difficult, no an impossible, script. I
had always feared this day.
When Stan came into the office he didn't go to his deck chair.
Instead he went to the window which was open a few inches and
flung it up all the way so that the glass rattled. Then he thrust
the top of his body through the aperture and screamed across Ste.
Catherine Street, "Freedom now!"
There must have been some response from the street because he
hung out there for a few minutes and I heard one end of an abu-
sive conversation before he drew himself back in and said to me,
"Bore, bore, bore! I can't do this any more, Joe Huck. lam dying
of boredom." Then he prostrated himself, not in the chair but on
the floor.
"Ready when you are, Stanley," I said.
But he went on, "I couldn't sleep last night. I lay awake asking
myself where's the excitement? Where's the adventure? Man was
not created to lurch round and round on a treadmill. You know
who has it all figured out? That former playwright what's-his-
name, who wrote African Genitals. Robert Aardvark."
"Robert Ardrey. African Genesis."
"That's the guy. He has a new book in which he theorizes that
man's Number One need is not security, it's excitement. Freedom
from boredom. I think he's right."
"Okay. How do we work that into episode number 52?"
Stan Percival reared up on one elbow, his large head appearing
over the edge of my desk like the Kraken's. "Damn it, that's the
point. I am not going to write episode number 52. I am off the
treadmill as of now. I seek a new adventure."
"Fine. And what will you do for money?"
Our weekly situation comedy on CBC Television was an imita-
tion of similar American series and we never kidded ourselves. Its
existence was predicated on a political demand for Canadian con-
tent on the taxpayers' network. But the pay was good and there
were no other jobs like it for writers in Montreal.
"Money," said Stan, "will have to be one of the essential ingre-
dients of our new adventure."
"You've got me in it, too?"
"Of course. You're just as bored as I am. You're just too
security-bound to show it."
It was clear he needed humoring. "Okay, partner, tell me about
our adventure."
Stan sat up on his blue-denimed haunches. "It has to be some
sort of crime."
"Crime?"
"Right. That's where the adventure is. I figured it all out last
night. I'm convinced half the people involved in criminal acts do it
because the straight-and-narrow bores them stiff."
"But we can't kill anybody. I doubt we could even rob a bank.
No experience."
"Pay attention, oh, Lucky Huck. There is crime and there is
crime. The category I have in mind is the kind that involves no
violence. It demands ingenuity on the part of the criminal, and
usually a degree of crookedness in the victim who wants some-
thing for nothing. I speak, noble Huck, of the big con, the big
bunco."
I shook my head. "These things are not easy."
"Of course not. That's precisely the challenge. But aren't we in
the con game already? Don't we spend our days making up pre-
posterous stories that involve the manipulation of a lot of charac-
ters to achieve a desired end?" He was on his knees now, sprawled
halfway across the desk. "All we have to do is apply our skills to
inventing a con. Some sort of plot that feeds on human greed and
ends up milking some sucker who deserves it because he goes
along."
I sensed the momentum in Stan's persuasion, but it was too late
to get off the track. "And I suppose you have something in mind."
"It hit me in the wee hours," he said. "We are going to sell the
Jacques Cartier Bridge."
I raised my eyes to the window and saw in the distance the
massive steel structure vaulting the St. Lawrence River to the
South Shore. "Stanley," I said, "this is another fine mess you're
getting us into."
"It's an idea. We've had crazier ones. Now all we have to do is
work out the details."
I must admit it was an interesting exercise. I went along be-
. cause there was no way Stan Percival would get back to the script
until he had played out his game. By late afternoon we had
hacked out a scenario which, given a bit of luck, might just work.
It involved our actor-friend Yves Paquette doing his uncanny
impersonation of the Mayor of Montreal and it included an impor-
tant role for Stan's girl friend, Portia Fleming. If all went well,
the plan ended with a payoff to us of $50,000.
When I raised my eyebrows at that, Stan said, "I won't kid you,
I need the money. My alimony payments are killing me." He
stood up, displaying his denims and faded T-shirt. "You think I
enjoy dressing like a middle-aged hippie?"
My $200 sports jacket hung majestically on the back of the
chair. "I've tried .to tell you" I began.
"I know. I waste money. But I'm trying to change." He went to
the door. "Come on, I'll buy us both dinner."
That evening we prowled hotel lobbies looking for a setting. We
were lucky. We had covered the Mount Royal and the Laurentian.
Then, in the Queen Elizabeth, we saw listed on the bulletin
board: CANADIAN CONSTRUCTION INDUSTRY CONVENTION.
"These are the guys we want," Stan said.
"But it's today, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. That's too sud-
den."
"Nonsense. 'Mission Impossible' converts a warehouse into the
Freedonian Museum overnight. The faster we have to work, the
better. Verve, Brother Huck, panache, elan."
I drifted past a table where ticketed conventioneers were regis-
tering and I picked up a membership roster. Then Stan and I
went into the bar, ordered a beer, and perused the list for a poten-
tial bridge buyer. We were halfway through when I spotted a fa-
miliar name and ajolt of adrenalin made my hand tremble.
"Lewicki," I said. "E. J. Lewicki from Baytown, Ontario."
Stan's grinning face was clenched like a fist. "It's working, isn't
it? The pieces are falling into place."
"Back home in Baytown everybody's heard of E. J. Lewicki.
Made his fortune building airfields for the Commonwealth Train-
ing Plan during the war. Always in the papers. A hint of scandal
one year about kickbacks."
"Our man," Stan said. "Our pigeon."
"Keeps getting hassled by the Provincials for driving fast under
the influence. Usually has a pretty chick beside him."
"Oh, my goodness." Stan was cracking his huge knuckles like
walnuts. "We couldn't have written a better character ourselves.
You say he likes pretty girls? I'll go and get Portia. You pick up
Yves Paquette and we'll meet back at the office in half an hour."
We did. Yves and I had possession of the two chairs when Stan
arrived with Portia and a paper bag containing six quarts of beer
and a roll of paper cups. Drinking beer out of a paper cup is an
abomination, but it is just one of the things I hate and yet keep
doing when working with Stan Percival. Another is embarking on
a venture like selling the Jacques Cartier Bridge to a rich un-
scrupulous Ontario construction magnate. But I knew there would
be no getting my partner back to episode number 52 until he got
this quirk out of his system. If it were done, it were best done
quickly.
I offered Portia my chair, but she preferred to recline on the
desk, which caused Stan's huge face to assume a thoughtful ex-
pression. I was afraid he might cancel the meeting and order me
and Yves out of the office, but the caper held too firm a grip on
his mind.
A word about Portia. She is 23 years old and features miles of
cascading blonde hair at one end and miles of devastating leg at
the other. Her torso is generous too, and stretched out as she was
now on one elbow with one knee up, a backless sandal dangling
from the other foot and her blouse losing the battle to stay closed
three buttons to two, you had to admit nothing more was required
of Portia Fleming. Which was just as well because she is a terri-
ble actress.
"Stanley," she said now, "how is my part coming in the series?
Are you writing me more lines?"
This was Stan's current trap. Only by using extreme persuasion
had he wangled her a bit part in "Rooms Without Doors." The di-
rector, a good judge of talent, abhorred any script in which she ap-
peared and was urging Stan to write her out. Meanwhile, from
Portia's side the pressure was maintained for a fatter part. And
when Portia applied pressure, it was warm and fragrant and
sweet. Stan was caught in the vise of life; someday soon he would
have to find a way to escape its squeeze.
"This is not a script conference," Stan said. "We are here on a
more important matter." And he proceeded to outline our plan. At
this point you may be wondering why these two newcomers did
not reject the scheme which was, of course, strictly illegal. You
must remember Stan was talking to actors. As long as he is play-
ing a part, an actor will do anything from undressing in a
department-store window to selling a shoddy product on TV. An
actor must act.
"Portia, you will make contact with E. J. LewickiJoe will
point him out to you. Remember, you are playing the part of a
confidential secretary to Mayor Martel of Montreal. All you have
to do is drop a hint about the plans to build a new University on
Ste. Helen's Island. Just let him know that it will be a big project.
A lot of steel will be used."
Yves Paquette said, "I guess you want me to play the part of
the Mayor." He put on a tiny twisted smile and let his eyes slip
into the famous glazed, maniacal stare and we had to laugh. Even
without makeup he was almost His Worship.
"Remember," I said to Yves, "Lewicki will have seen the real
Mayor addressing the dinner a few hours earlier, so you'll have to
be good."
Yves opened his private door just enough to let me catch a
glimpse of the giant ego lurking inside. "I am good," he said.
We confirmed our times, rehearsed our lines, finished the beer,
then went home to bed1 to mine, Yves to his, and Stan, pre-
sumably, to Portia's.
Next afternoon I telephoned the hotel and reserved  room in
the name of Finn, a clever alias since my name is Huck. I checked
in at 5:00, telephoned Stan, and he showed up an hour later car-
rying the inevitable paper bag. This time it contained a bottle of
rye. Stan phoned for ice. Then he called Yves and gave him the
room number.
At eight o'clock we met Portia in the doorway of the main salon
where the Construction Conventioneers had just finished dinner.
The real Mayor was beginning his speech. Portia had trouble
spotting us because we were both wearing glasses we didn't need
and Stan had pasted on a false mustache. I tipped the headwaiter
and he let us lurk along the wall until I spotted E. J. Lewicki and
pointed him out to Portia.
It was years since I had seen the affable millionaire cruising
the streets of Baytown, but he had not changed much. His hair
was whiter, but it still covered his head like Good King Wences-
las's snowdeep and crisp and even. And the symbolic unlighted
cigar still projected from between his teeth untouched by his fas-
tidious lips which were drawn away from the tobacco in a rigid
grin.
We left Portia Fleming thus loaded and pointed in the right di-
rection and went back to the room to wait for Yves. Professional
to the core, he showed up on the stroke of 9:00, batted and
cloaked to conceal his uncannily Mayorish appearance. At 9:30 we
left him and went down to the bar where, according to plan, Por-
tia was supposed to be drinking with Lewicki. And she was,
seated at a table in the far corner, their heads so close that she
could have bitten the other end of his cigar.
Portia greeted .us with surprise as we passed by. "Carl, Peter,"
she called, using our assumed names, "did you hear the boss's
speech?"
"Hello, Jenn. No. We just got here. His Worship wants to see us
upstairs to ask how we're making out on the project."
Portia, as Jenny, introduced us in our roles as executive assis-
tants to the Mayor of Montreal. We sat down, accepted a drink,
and soon had our plot rolling along in high gear. Lewicki, un-
scrupulous and avaricious, was everything a con man could ask.
"You guys," he soon said, "must be right in there where the ac-
tion is."
"Oh, we hear a thing or two."
"The young lady mentioned something about building a new
University down on the island. I'd sure like to get in on that."
"Well, sir," Stan said, "there's no reason why you shouldn't.
You've certainly made a good friend in Jenny."
"I wonder," I said, "if Mr. Lewicki might not be the man for the
Mayor's special project?"
I had let the cat out of the bag and Stan almost overplayed his
horror. I sensed that we were flirting with a Laurel and Hardy
interpretation. But Lewicki seemed interested. Thank goodness
for booze and bar lighting.
"Peter, the Mayor's project is not for public consumption."
"You can talk freely at this table, boys. E. J. Lewicki can keep
a secret."
Stan apologized, changed the subject, and for the time it took to
finish our drinks and order another round he made empty conver-
sation. But I could tell where Lewicki's thoughts were. Finally he
said, "Your Mayor is famous for his big ideas. I guess this new
one is a beauty."
My partner appeared to reconsider. He glanced at me. I nodded.
"Very well," he said. "Part of our assignment is to find an entre-
preneur who is big enough and fast enough to help put this deal
over."
Lewicki said, "I just got up and ran twice around the room and
you didn't even miss me."
"The deal is this. Now that the subway is running under the
river to the South Shore, and the new Champlain Bridge is
operating, the Mayor plans to close the old Jacques Cartier Bridge
and dismantle it. The city will accept an offer of five million dol-
lars for the steel in the bridge."
"But if I do that, I end up with a lot of steel on my hands and
nowhere to go with it."
"That's where the new University fits in. The proposed site is
Ste. Helen's Island, right beneath the bridge. You won't have to
go anywhere with the steel. You will sell it to the city for use in
the new construction. In effect, you will be a broker, buying the
bridge and selling it back almost on the same day. At a nice prof-
it. And the company that dismantles the bridge will 'be working
on a very nice municipal contract, too."
E. t). Lewicki turned his glittering eyes first on me, then on
Stan. The cold cigar pierced our hearts, one after the other.
"That's a handsome project. I expect the bidding will be fierce." -
"Mayor Martel doesn't work that way," Stan said. "He is, as you
may have heard, somewhat of an autocrat. He works fast and he
has the power to initiate projects as he sees fit. No, this contract
will go to the company the Mayor chooses."
"And you boys are expected to make a recommendation."
"We are."
The elderly millionaire turned to Portia. "What do you say,
Jenny?"
She put her hand on his. "I know the Mayor would like you."
"Done," Lewicki said. "Tell His Worship I'm interested."
"We can do better. We can take you to him right now."
So there we all were twenty minutes later in my room on the
fifteenth floor, raising our glasses of rye and tap water while the
Mayor of Montreal, played to the hilt by Yves Paquette, proposed
a toast.
"Felicitations a Monsieur Lewicki" he said, "and success to all
of us. May this project be brought to a very speedy and profitable
conclusion."
We drank and Yves drew Stan into a corner for a few words.
Then Yves put down his glass, shook hands with everyone, took
his coat and hat, and made -his departure.
The room seemed empty after Yves's large performance. Stan
said to Lewicki, "The Mayor just reminded me of a detail I ne-
glected to mention. There are certain requirements he has to fulfill
in order to expedite these projects as quickly as he does. It is
normal, in these cases, for the successful contractor to pay a
deposit"
"What you're saying is there's a payoff."
"That's a harsh word. I would never use it to describe"
He was interrupted again, this time by Lewicki's hearty laugh-
ter. "Don't be embarrassed, my boy. I've been in this game a long
time. I was wondering when you were going to ask for it. How
much do you want?"
"Fifty thousand dollars."
"Cash, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. Used bills, small denominations."
When Lewicki and Portia left ten minutes later, Stan and I fell
on the floor. Literally. "He went for it!" Stan said. "We have sold
that man the Jacques Cartier Bridge!"
"I can't believe it!"
"Believe it, my son. Tomorrow morning, right after the banks
open, Mr. Lewicki will be here with the money."
And it was so. We slept fitfully, woke at eight, shaved and
dressed and had a large room-service breakfast. At 10:30 Lewicki
and Portia arrived together with a satchel which, when opened,
revealed the sum of $50,000, all in used, low-denomination
banknotes.
"Jenny," Stan said, still playing everything according to our
beautiful script, "you'd better deliver this cash to the Mayor's
office and tell His Worship that the deal has been completed, con-
summated."
She took the satchel and left. ..
"Meanwhile," Stan said, "Peter and I will work fast drawing up
the necessary papers to get this project underway. You'll be hear-
ing from us very soon."
Lewicki was standing at the window looking downriver at his
newest possession. "Fine," he said. "And now I wonder if you boys
have any of that good Canadian whiskey left."
I am not a morning drinker, but for $50,000 I figured I could go
along. We sipped and chatted while my impatience grew. The
show was over. I wished to be gone.
Finally Lewicki set down his empty glass. Then he patted his
pockets. "Oh, boys," he said, "I have just given the young lady all
the cash I have. I'm checking out now and I have a lot of people to
tip. How much money can you spare me?"
Stan said, "How much do you need?"
Lewicki pondered and mumbled. "Bellhops, maid, garage,
waitersthey've all been real good to me. Can you let me have a
couple of hundred?"
Stan and I pooled our funds. We just made $200 with cab fare
,  left over. Back in the office, waiting for Portia to show up, I said,
"Imagine that old bird hitting us up like that."
Stan said, "Relax, he said he'd mail it back. Besides, we pay out
$200, we get back $50,000 less expenses. If you don't speculate,
you can't accumulate."
By now we were hungry. By two o'clock we were tired and
surly. By 3:30 we were suspicious. At 4:00, when Portia's tele-
gram was delivered, we were angry and sick. I gave my last quar-
ter to the boy while Stan took a long yellow sheet from the en-
velope. He read it aloud.
HI BOYS. I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE ABLE TO AFFORD TO SEND A LO~JGG
WIRE. NOW I'M RICH SO HERE GOES. STAN, I ALWAYS THOUGHT MY
FAILURE IN TV WAS NOT BECAUSE I'M A BAD ACTRESS BUT BECAUSE
YOU ARE A BAD WRITER. THIS PROVES IT.' THE MOTIVATION YOU PRO-
VIDED ME IN THIS CON GAME WAS VERY FLIMSY. WHY SHOULD I
CHEAT THAT SWEET MR. LEWICKI JUST SO YOU AND YOUR DUMB
PARTNER CAN MAKE .A KILLING? ANYWAY E.J. TELLS ME YOUR PLAN
WOULDN'T HAVE FOOLED ANYBODY. THE STEEL FROM A BRIDGE WOULD
NEVER BE USED IN CONSTRUCTING UNIVERSITY BUILDINGS. JUST
ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF YOUR CARELESS PLOTTING. YOU DO IT ALL THE
TIME. GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOUR TACKY TELEVISION PLAYS BUT NOT
FOR REAL LIFE. SO I AM HERE NOW IN BAYTOWN WITH SOMEBODY
WHO REALLY KNOWS HOW TO BE NICE TO ME. TELL JOE I LIKE HIS
HOMETOWN. HE SHOULD NEVER HAVE LEFT. LOVE. PORTIA.
After Stan had torn up the telegram and kicked the deck chair
to pieces, nobody said anything for a whil~. Then I went over and
tried to cheer him up.
"Well, at least you're rid of Portia Fleming. She was a problem
in the series and now she's gone forever."
I said it, but I took no comfort from it, and I don't think Stan
did either. We wanted her .gone because she was supposed to be
dumb. But the way things forked out, it looks like the smart
cookies flew away to Baytown and left the dumb guys in
Montreal, out $200 plus expenses.