Harry was a sho'nuff paper hanger but don't ask him to do your wall paper. Harry's was the kind of paper hanger that's cop's jargon for bum check artists. Worthless check utterer. Forger. And Harry was at the top of his class.
It was an easier and more attractive job in the sixties. Many of the banks were private or state banks, not national banks insured by the FDIC. Rinky-dink operations. Cashing a check was a casual affair. If you'd left your checkbook at home, most stores had counter checks you could use. Counter checks were in a check's regular format, but minus the name of any bank. You just filled in the name of your bank, the amount, and signed it.
A friend once argued that you didn't even need a counter check. You could write one out on a piece of paper. To prove it, we walked up to the Bank of Naples and he did just that. No problem.
So, in this grand world of slack security, Harry made his living. A charmer, with a gift of BS, he was perfect for the job. Seldom was he even asked for ID. And some folks he'd skinned refused to press charges. His problem was he was too honest, many times using his real name, leading to many stints in jail.
Although a born and bred Naples Cracker, we weren't the only ones who got to enjoy Harry. I received a call from a used car dealer in Texas. Wanted to know if I'd ever heard of Harry. "You didn't take one of his checks did you?" I asked.
He had. Harry'd left it for payment on a car he bought. "I don't usually do business like that," the dealer said, "but he was so damn likable. Told me he was driving back to Naples to see his sick mother. Wanted to take her for a ride in a nice car before she died. When I found out the check was no good, I called you."
"What'd you sell him," I asked.
"Can't miss it," the fella said, "Caddy limo, black, 'bout as long as the Orange Blossom Special."
I had to laugh. I'd seen Harry driving it the day before. Gave me a big wave, tooted his horn.
Later Harry was on the road gang, working on Davis Boulevard, opposite the entrance to Brookside Village. There used to be a bar there called the Village Inn. The guard, who sat in a truck out of the sun and half-watched the crew of all trustee convicts, noticed Harry's crew sitting down. He went to check. They were all drinking cold beers. "What the. . .?" he said.
"I bought it at the Village Inn," Harry volunteered. "Nothin' goes down like a cold beer when you're hot and sweaty."
"Right," the guard said, "just walked in there in your prison stripes and he gave it you, you not havin' no money an' all."
"Oh, no," Harry said, "I wrote him a check."
And damned if he hadn't. The bartender, when asked what possessed him to take a check from a convict said, "I don't know, seemed like such a nice fellar."
It was an easier and more attractive job in the sixties. Many of the banks were private or state banks, not national banks insured by the FDIC. Rinky-dink operations. Cashing a check was a casual affair. If you'd left your checkbook at home, most stores had counter checks you could use. Counter checks were in a check's regular format, but minus the name of any bank. You just filled in the name of your bank, the amount, and signed it.
A friend once argued that you didn't even need a counter check. You could write one out on a piece of paper. To prove it, we walked up to the Bank of Naples and he did just that. No problem.
So, in this grand world of slack security, Harry made his living. A charmer, with a gift of BS, he was perfect for the job. Seldom was he even asked for ID. And some folks he'd skinned refused to press charges. His problem was he was too honest, many times using his real name, leading to many stints in jail.
Although a born and bred Naples Cracker, we weren't the only ones who got to enjoy Harry. I received a call from a used car dealer in Texas. Wanted to know if I'd ever heard of Harry. "You didn't take one of his checks did you?" I asked.
He had. Harry'd left it for payment on a car he bought. "I don't usually do business like that," the dealer said, "but he was so damn likable. Told me he was driving back to Naples to see his sick mother. Wanted to take her for a ride in a nice car before she died. When I found out the check was no good, I called you."
"What'd you sell him," I asked.
"Can't miss it," the fella said, "Caddy limo, black, 'bout as long as the Orange Blossom Special."
I had to laugh. I'd seen Harry driving it the day before. Gave me a big wave, tooted his horn.
Later Harry was on the road gang, working on Davis Boulevard, opposite the entrance to Brookside Village. There used to be a bar there called the Village Inn. The guard, who sat in a truck out of the sun and half-watched the crew of all trustee convicts, noticed Harry's crew sitting down. He went to check. They were all drinking cold beers. "What the. . .?" he said.
"I bought it at the Village Inn," Harry volunteered. "Nothin' goes down like a cold beer when you're hot and sweaty."
"Right," the guard said, "just walked in there in your prison stripes and he gave it you, you not havin' no money an' all."
"Oh, no," Harry said, "I wrote him a check."
And damned if he hadn't. The bartender, when asked what possessed him to take a check from a convict said, "I don't know, seemed like such a nice fellar."
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