A dead octogenarian, an inquisitive beat cop, and a hot fuchsia handbag choked with large bills, Jimbo had been in tougher spots than this. A part of him was sick of the grift. His first con had been trading Anthony Cordero’s Pokémon cards for Franchine Lopez’ GameBoy. By middle school his fake test answers had Jimbo living large on Twinkies. He bought his first car in high school with the found wallet scheme.

Mom didn’t seem to notice the Jordans or Calvin Klein sportswear. Jimbo wished she did. He used to lie say they were dupes. After the car (which he “sold” three times), Jimbo just left a wad of cash on the kitchen counter each week till he moved out.

After two years at community college and valeting for the Four Seasons Hotel, Jimbo knew all he needed to know. The parking lots of the rich and important were graduate schools for the con artist. A sponge, Jimbo soaked up how to sound erudite, entitled, and most importantly completely at ease in every situation. With a couple of acquaintances, Jimbo was the face on white van speakers con game unloading half ass headphones as Bose.

The gravy was flowing but some of his cohorts were too ostentatious and besides Jimbo wasn’t a man who liked to split his pie. The young old conman bought a sucker list at an Arby’s men’s restroom and bounced to the ‘burbs. Smooth as a great white, Jimbo glided through retirement communities. He focused on his own version of the bank teller ploy. A lot of the old timers were catching on to the classics so Jimbo refashioned himself as Gareth St. James, community coordinator, for the fictitious nonprofit GreenSmart.

Zigzagging along the mid-Atlantic, Jimbo reeled in the fish with his plea for help fighting bank fraud with the mark’s money. Stroking their egos while eating their coffee cake, Jimbo grew bored. Edwina Weaver, Jimbo had wanted her to be the last one. Edwina Weaver, a former librarian and current bocce ball champion, was crumbled at his feet. Edwina, who liked him, always asked him about his day. had hurried to their meeting place, had thrusted her favorite pink purse into his arm, and collapsed. Holding her life savings in his hand, Jimbo felt something he’d never felt before. The cop coughed.

“Sir? Mr. Jaime. I asked you how you knew the deceased.”

“Poor soul, I don’t know her at all. I was waiting for my friend when I noticed her—“

Slipping the purse over his shoulder, Jimbo burst into tears. Dramatically he wailed and collapsed into the policeman’s unwilling arms.

“Um, sir, perhaps you should have a sit down.”

“You’re right. Maybe I’ll just pop into the little boy’s room and splash cold water on my face,” Jimbo said between slobbering bear hugs.

Dipping with indescribable relief, Jimbo shook off his past. He went in the park center’s front door and out the side. Sun on his face, Jimbo was ready for a new life. Miami and a clever twist on the old snake oil treatment bloomed in his smile.