Michael Kaplan’s Advantage Players: The Shell Game Guys And My $800 Winter Jacket

A recent Card Player story about cops dressing up like Batman and Robin to bust a shell game scam taking place on the streets of London is cool. But to disrupt a sidewalk gambling operation, I leave the costume in the closet and need nothing more than gumption, a pad, and a pen.

I’d always wanted to write about street set-ups like the shell game and the more flamboyant three-card Monte. The latter – created in Spain, perfected in Manhattan – raged on the streets of New York when I was young teenager who’d cut school and bus in from a New Jersey suburb.

Along 42nd Street, amid grind-house movie theaters and pornographic bookstores where switchblades were sold on the sly, there were always guys with craftily set up tables fashioned from cardboard boxes. Fleet fingered, they flipped three cards around on the cardboard, two were black suits and one was red.

Smooth as the uptown freestylers, they implored crowds of would-be players to watch the red and forget about the black. Shills appeared to make money, tourists got bled $20 at a time, and I loved watching it all go down.

My father had an office near where the action took place. I revealed to him that I planned on figuring out how to beat it. He asked me if I was a moron and told me to stay away from those games.

Heeding what passed for fatherly advice in Sopranos-style New Jersey, I never played three-card Monte. But, also, I never got tired of observing it.

So, a couple years ago, when it came to light that an organized gang of lanky Africans were doing a Monte inspired play (using bottle caps and plastic peas instead of playing cards) on a busy shopping street in Manhattan’s Soho neighborhood, I knew I had to write about it.

Coincidentally, located on the block was the American branch of a Canadian outerwear company called Canuck. They sold ultra-warm down jackets and were having a sale. Even marked down, the jackets were $800. Nevertheless, I thought I wanted one.

So, I showed up on the block, shortly before the shell game guys tended to materialize. They had lookouts and shills and furtive men on the corners who communicated via cell phone. After browsing the store and asking the salesguy to put aside a black jacket for me, I waited for action to commence.

The newspaper that assigned me the story sent a photographer who loomed out of site with a telephoto lens.

Playing the rube, I approached the shell-game guy and watched. He tried inducing me to play while moving the caps at what he called “Stevie Wonder speed.”

Remembering my father’s words – and those of my editor who would not let me expense any losses – I stared dumbfounded and told him that I couldn’t follow.

One of the shills basically called me stupid for not thinking I could do it. Meanwhile, I peppered the guy with questions about how he learned the game, how many people win, where they come from.

A recalcitrant interview subject, he finally stopped moving the caps and asked, “Are you a cop?”

I told him that I’m not. But he didn’t buy it. A pall fell over the proceedings. I saw flurries of activity among lookouts on a corner. It seemed like a good time to retreat to the safety of Canuck and its $800 winter jackets. Amazingly, the guy doing the game handed his rig off to one of his partners and followed me to the store.

Luckily the place had a security guard. I slipped inside and feigned interest in the $800 jacket as the shell-game guy tried to sidestep his way past the entrance.

Looking over the guard’s shoulder, shell-game guy pointed my way, and said he needed to speak with me. The guard asked me if he was my friend. Of course, I said he wasn’t. Shell-game guy grudgingly left. But everyone in Canuck was staring at me.

The salesman asked if I wanted to buy the jacket.

“Uhm,” I said. “Yeah.”

So, I purchased the $800 jacket and called an Uber. The security man walked me outside and warned me not to mess with those guys. I guess the ruckus was sufficient that the shell-gamers packed it in for the moment. I rode home and kept glancing out the back window.

I got a story out of the incident and a jacket. My understanding is that the street scammers found another block. I haven’t seen them since. The Soho location of Canuck shut down. And I have a very warm garment that is riddled with memories.

All told, as my dad would be glad to know, maybe I did finish on top while going against a gang of street-game scammers.

Michael Kaplan is a journalist based in New York City. He is the author of five books (“The Advantage Players” out soon) and has worked for publications that include Wired, GQ and the New York Post. He has written extensively on technology, gambling, and business — with a particular interest in spots where all three intersect. His article on Kelly “Baccarat Machine” Sun and Phil Ivey is currently in development as a feature film.

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