“They’ve torn down the house since then,” he’d tell them as he slowed down in front of the home that had replaced it. “But the wall where he dropped his glove?” Jackie would point to the far end of the property. “It was over there.” Then he’d smile and ask, “Or was it Detective Fuhrman put it there?” Pausing for effect before adding, “Don’t you just love a mystery?”

He’d stop the car at this point saying, “And Kato’s guest house--did I tell you he’s a friend of a friend?--it was right in front of the wall. I can’t reveal exactly what Kato’s told me,” Jackie would have a serious look about him now, “but let’s just say his advice would be, Never get O.J. pissed off at you.”

And so it would go. Four or five minutes’ worth of this until he’d rub his hands together and say, “Okay. On to the scene of the crime.”

To get to Nicole Brown Simpson’s condo he’d take the scenic drive--no houses under two and a-half million--and they’d invariably ask, “Hey Jackie. So where’s your place?” They’d say “place,” not actually using the word “apartment,” not wanting to come right out and say they knew that Jackie was full of shit about owning a house in Brentwood.

“It’s up Mandeville Canyon,” he’d say. “We’ll run by there before dinner. But I gotta be honest. It’s not a two-story job like a lot of what you’re seeing. By Brentwood standards, it’s really pretty low key, trust me.”

A quick drive-by past the murder site--it was walled with nothing much to see--and it would be on to the coffee shop that used to be the Mezzaluna restaurant, “Where Ron Goldman served Nichole the ‘Last Supper.’” He’d shake his head saying, “Poor bastards,” then look at his watch. “Holy shit, we’re running late. We got eight o’clock reservations at Mirabelle.” Sometimes it would be Spago, or maybe The Palm. “We’ll have a drink at my place after.”

But they never did. Jackie always came up with a reason; and they always let it slide.

#

From where he stood on the side street, Jackie could see the occasional car pull up to the hotel’s Wilshire Boulevard entrance. The drivers would get out to wait for a parking attendant, then they’d notice the freestanding sign at the curb--“Valet Parking In Rear”--and move on.

Jackie liked it: no doorman, not much foot traffic in and out of the hotel. He walked up Wilshire and, without missing a beat, snatched the valet-parking sign as he passed it. He dropped it in the alley, continued to the next corner, and waited.

Less than ten minutes later, a white Honda swerved to the curb--an Accord, the most stolen vehicle in America. Jackie smiled. If he boosted it, he knew one man who’d be happy: the insurance-company actuary. Validate the man’s numbers. But why fuck over this poor working stiff? The guy, opening his door now, for sure upside-down considering the car was brand-spanking new.

Jackie would prefer an SUV--hopefully a Navigator or Escalade. Or maybe a convertible--a Corvette or Lexus SC. A rich guy finds out his car’s been stolen, he takes it more in stride. Probably finds a way to turn a profit. Hey, if you looked at it that way, Jackie’d be doing him a favor.

So he’d take a pass on the Accord. Jackie headed over saying, “Sorry. Valet’s in back.”

The guy, seeing Jackie in his “uniform” of black pants, white shirt and black vest, said, “What took you so fuckin long?” A little guy, late twenties, wanting to impress his girlfriend. Trying to act tough, but not looking so tough in his Gap khakis, pink Izod shirt, and brown Dockers shoes.

Jackie said, “Maybe you didn’t hear me, sir.” Saying “sir” as sarcastically as he could. “We’ll be happy to take care of you at our rear entrance.” He turned to walk away but then heard the guy say, “Hey, buddy,” and looked back in time to see car keys flying his way, the guy saying the luggage was in the trunk.

Jackie caught the keys, staying calm. He said, “I guess I owe you an apology. I didn’t realize you know me.” Fucking with the guy now. The guy said nothing, looking confused.

Jackie said, “I mean, you know my name: Buddy.”

The guy nodded.

“But I’m a bit embarrassed,” Jackie said. “I’ve forgotten yours.”

“Uh, Webster. Alan Webster.”

“Okay, Mr. Webster, no problem. I’ll bring the car around back.” Jackie reached into his vest pocket saying, “Here’s a claim check,” opening the car door now. “I’ll bring your luggage to the bell desk. Just call for them after you get to your room.” The guy tipped him a buck. Big shot.

As Jackie started the car, he heard the cassette player come to life--Britney Spears, holy shit--and thanked God for creating the eject button. He stopped in the circular drive behind the hotel and hit the trunk-release, waving a young bellhop over with a five-dollar bill in his hand. “Would you please hold my bags at the bell desk until I’m checked in?” The kid took the five. “The name’s Webster.”

As he was pulling away, Jackie watched the bellhop maneuver the brass luggage trolley through the doorway, the trolley holding four bags. Jesus, none of them matching, Jackie thinking it made him look like he lacked class. But the five hundred he’d get for the Accord was some consolation. It would almost cover his own car payment.

#

Jackie sat on his balcony, an evening breeze blowing in from the Pacific, pouring himself an orange/strawberry/banana smoothie. Very California. Adding a shot of Canadian Club. Very Detroit. He heard a cell phone ringing on the balcony below, then the voice of his neighbor Marsha saying, “..It’s a great listing. The house comps out at a million and a quarter...Nice lot, corner Jonesboro and Beckwith, twenty-three hundred square feet...The owners are back east already, so they’re really motivated and want it listed at a million one. Thing is, with the shortage of inventory, there’ll be a bidding war and they’ll still get a million and a quarter... It’ll show beautifully, it’s still furnished. The wife says she’s over her contemporary phase. Says their new place calls for more of a Tuscan-country look, so they left everything, even the wall hangings ? And the place has a little bit of local history to it. You know who used to own it? Remember Mickey Cohen, the gangster? Well, his sister used to live there...”

Jackie ran the numbers in his head. Six percent commission on 1.25 million was 75 thousand. Say another agent sold it; the listing office would get half of that: better than 37 thou. And Marsha’s cut would be about 25 grand, not bad. She was a girl on her way up. He took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and exhaled. Where the hell was he going?

Jackie, halfway through his drink and starting to feel a little buzz, heard his cell phone ringing now. It was a “guess who?” call and he recognized the voice--Ted Corey. He’d partnered a bit with the guy a while ago--bootlegging cigarettes, paper-hanging at the track--small stuff like that, back in Michigan. Ted said he was in L.A. for his cousin’s wedding, staying at the Doubletree Hotel in Westwood. Was Jackie free for dinner tomorrow night? Italian, maybe?

Jackie wondered what was on Ted’s mind--the guy was always scheming--but only asked, was seven o’clock good? He knew just the place and could pick Ted up.

Ted said fine. Said he’d bring a bottle of Asti Spumante. When Jackie told him it wasn’t necessary--the restaurant had a full bar--Ted said it was to “christen the bar at your house. Celebrate the good fortune you’re having in California.”

The house. So that’s what this was about. His fish story--that’s all it was--had reached Ted. A nice enough guy, lots of laughs, but a big-league bullshitter who cut nobody any slack on their bullshit. Now wanting to call Jackie’s bluff.

Jackie laughed. “Here’s how it is. You want to christen my bar, nothing less than Dom Perignon will do.” Jackie raising the stakes now, Dom going for one thirty-five a bottle and Ted being a mooch.

Ted asked how do you spell it, he’d look for it. Said he’d be out in front of the Doubletree at seven, ciao.

Jackie powered the phone off and splashed another shot of CC into what remained of the smoothie. The last thing he needed now was someone busting his chops.

#

Jackie interrupted the O.J. Tour, turning onto Helena Drive, pointing out the Marilyn Monroe house to Ted. “This is where she died, 1962. I was just a baby then.” Stopping the car now. “What I know her from, mostly, is the Biography Channel. Her singing Happy Birthday to President Kennedy.”

“I’m old enough to remember her,” Ted said. “Especially in the movie with Tom Ewell. The one where she gets tipsy and he tries to get her in the sack. Except they never really got it on in the movies back then.” He was smiling now. “Offscreen she did it plenty. But onscreen, they’d just cut to logs blazing in the fireplace.” Then he took a different tack. “Your house is around here, isn’t it, Jackie?” Getting right to it. “Why don’t we toss back a couple scotches before dinner? Shoot the shit sitting around your pool.” Pulling a bottle now--christ, Dom Perignon--from the oversized pocket of his cargo jacket. “Sip champagne chasers.”

Jackie shot a glance at Ted, the guy really enjoying himself. “Tell you what, Ted. We’ll head over there after we finish up at the Mezzaluna.”

But when they wrapped up the tour, Jackie looked at his watch and said, “Holy shit. We gotta be at Matteo’s by eight o’clock.” Looking over at Ted now. “Did I mention it was Sinatra’s favorite?”

Ted said, “Hey, Jackie—”

Jackie waved him off. “We’ll run by my place after,” he said.

#

As Jackie pulled out of Matteo’s parking lot onto Westwood Boulevard, Ted turned to him and said, “You got any Amaretto at home?” The guy was relentless. “I like to mix it with my scotch.”

Jackie just shrugged.

“Worst case,” Ted said, “we’ll have the scotch neat.”

On the radio, they were playing “Light My Fire,” the long version, neither of them talking until Jackie made the right from San Vicente onto 26th Street and headed down the hill. “This part of Brentwood’s called the Polo Fields,” Jackie said. “You know what? The ’34 Olympics, the equestrian events, they took place right here.” He hung a left saying, “In the fifties, when they built homes and dug for swimming pools, the place smelled of buried horseshit for weeks. Can you believe that?” Stopping the car now in front of a beautifully landscaped home, accent lighting giving the place a resort-type feel. Jackie asking, “Ever hear of Mickey Cohen?”

Ted shook his head.

“Big outfit guy in L.A. years back. When he lived in this house, they’d all visit: Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, the whole bunch.”

They walked up the brick pathway to the front door, Jackie smiling to himself as the previous hours’ work ran through his mind like a Quentin Tarrentino flashback: Resurrecting his old B&E skills--picking the door lock, decoding the mechanism, making a duplicate key. Doing a walk-through--scoping out the place, getting a feel for it, stashing a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, Ted’s favorite. Then sweetening the scene--eighty-sixing the sales flyers and agents’ business cards. And taking down the “for sale” sign--late in the day when no one would notice--just before picking Ted up.

Man, if Ted only knew how much work his fucking bottle of Dom Perignon had created.

Jackie opened the door now, turned on the lights, and heard Ted whistle--“Jesus, look at this”--the place combining art deco with contemporary, done in black and cream, chrome and glass: very Architectural Digest. Jackie couldn’t figure why the homeowners had got tired of this stuff.

Ted said, “Whoa, Jackie. L.A.’s been good to you, huh?”

Jackie played it low key. “I can’t complain,” he said. “My place up Mandeville was bigger, but I like this layout better.” He beckoned Ted with a wave of his hand. “Here, I’ll show you around...”

A couple hours later as they were leaving, Jackie locking up, Ted pointed toward the top of the door. Jackie thought Ted had spotted the real-estate-agent lock box, shit, starting to figure things out. But, no, it was something else. “Hey Jackie. This little goodie on the doorframe. That’s a Jewish doodad, no?”

Jackie was unfazed. “Yeah, I think they call it a “mezuma” or something. It’s for good luck.” They were heading down the stairs now, Jackie saying, “Can never have too much luck. Can you, Ted?” Figuring it was about time that his changed for the better.

#

The idea came to him that night in a dream, played out in his head like a movie, with Jackie in the starring role. It opened with no credits, jumping right into the action, Jackie duplicating the key to Mickey Cohen’s place.

Now the house was becoming much bigger, like a mansion on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” And Jackie was a real estate mogul showing the property to Ted.

Then Ted disappeared. It was Angelina Jolie checking the house out now--flirting with Jackie --until George Clooney walked into the room and she began flirting with him. Jackie started to tell George to get the fuck out, get his own dream. But Angelina interrupted Jackie saying she loved the place, five million being no problem, would a two hundred grand deposit--green money--be okay?

In the final scene, Jackie was on a beach in Tahiti counting the cash, sharing a pina colada with a topless island girl; and only a little pissed off that George had probably ended up with Angelina.

When he woke up, everything still vivid in his mind, Jackie decided to rerun the dream. There was some good shit here, some things he could use.

#

The key to planning a good con, Jackie’d been taught, was to put yourself in the mark’s shoes. See the proposition from his perspective. So Jackie--sitting now at his kitchen table, head bowed, eyes closed--pictured a wealthy home shopper. The guy, opening the Times real estate section, sees an ad that grabs him. Gives the agent--that would be Jackie--a call. Then makes an appointment and goes out to take a look. Problem number one: The guy and the missus would expect to see a “for sale” sign with Jackie’s name on it. After all, it was Jackie’s ad.

Then Jackie pictured the couple taking the walk-through and giving each other little signals. Saying how nice the place was. Then saying they wanted to think it over. Problem number two: How do you get them excited enough to fork over a deposit right away?

Jackie looked up, his gaze fixed on the windowless wall across the way, thinking it through, things getting clearer. The way it would go down, he’d start with a simple bait and switch. The middle part, the pitch, was just bullshit talk--no problem. But the close would be the best part: He’d appeal to their greed. As W.C. Fields once said, “You can’t cheat an honest man.”

#

Jackie thought the place looked like an English country estate: ivy-covered Tudor, carriage house, gardens. He imagined James Bond walking out the front door, holding a cigarette and drink in one hand, his free arm wrapped around some babe.

But as he got closer to the couple waiting on the porch, Jackie saw it was a nerdy sort of guy, mid-fifties, clutching a Palm Pilot. The woman, though, was a babe: a ringer for Adriana on the “Sopranos” but without the hard edge. And the two of them weren’t arm in arm; Jackie noticed that right away.

The woman spoke first. “Mr. Winston?” A hint of New England Brahmin in her voice, not New Jersey Bimbo.

Jackie said, “Please call me George,” handing her his business card: “GEORGE WINSTON, Estate Properties.” Jackie liked the sound of it--half George Washington, half Winston Churchill.

He also liked the sound of her name when she said it: Sandra Clark coming out as Sahndra Clahk. Then she said, Please meet Frank Halverson, the guy nodding but not saying anything yet. Jackie noticed the different last names, curious about their relationship.

“Thanks for meeting me here, folks,” Jackie said. “And sorry about the other property.”

Sandra said it had sounded lovely.

“Well, desirable properties don’t last long in this market. But this opportunity--” he swept his outstretched arm in a wide arc, indicating the grounds--“is even more exceptional.” Jackie was thinking he sounded just like an actual broker. “Your timing is perfect. An associate of mine just obtained the listing.”

He gave them the tour and pointed out all the features. The masonry: “Beautiful work, no? What you don’t see is the steel reinforcement. Makes the place practically earthquake proof.” The floor plan: “More open than your typical Tudor. Imagine yourself entertaining family and friends.” The view: “From this balcony you can see all of Westwood. Like a vista from heaven, isn’t it?”

Now they were in back, Jackie walking them through the gardens saying, “Notice the blending of color and texture.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sandra said. “Even nicer than the one inside the Bellagio in Las Vegas, and that’s going some.”

Jackie pictured her in Vegas, heads turning as she walked through the casino; but he couldn’t see Frank with her. His guess: she was from a good family and comfortable. And he was filthy rich. Otherwise, go figure.

Jackie led them back into the house, the three of them in the kitchen now. It was time to go for the close. “And all of this, folks, for only three million six.”

It got their attention, Frank getting involved for the first time. “Three six? I’d think this would go for at least four and a half. Is there a problem Sandra should know about, Mr. Winston?”

It took Jackie by surprise. So, she was buying the house. He said, “It’s a foreclosure, an ugly divorce, the bank wants it off their books. You know how that goes.”

They both nodded.

Jackie was looking Sandra in the eye now. “So anyone with the means, such as yourself, can’t go wrong. You could flip it right way, actually. Make a profit.” Getting down to business now. “Were you thinking of this as a residence, an investment, or both?”

Sandra said, “There’s no better investment than your own home, is there?” Thinking a moment before telling Jackie she wouldn’t quibble about the price. Would a three percent deposit do?

He said an even hundred thousand would be sufficient, the check made out to his firm: George Winston. It would go into a trust account.

Sandra reached into her purse, felt around, then smiled at Frank. “Sorry. I’ll need the keys to your car. My checkbook’s in my attaché.” She rested the purse on the kitchen counter and left.

Jackie told Frank he’d give the listing agent a call. Let him know about the offer. But where was his phone? He had it a minute ago... Frank said, “Not a problem.” He patted his front pant pocket, thought for a second, then reached into Sandra’s purse for her phone asking, “What’s your number?” He punched it in.

From across the room, they heard Jackie’s cell phone playing the theme from The Godfather--he’d left it on the windowsill next to the French doors--as Sandra returned, checkbook in hand. She laughed and said, “I guess you made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

#

The fifties-style apartment building reminded Jackie of his own: yellow stucco, two stories built around a swimming pool--the motel look being all the rage back then: L.A., the never-ending vacation. He found the name pasted over the mailbox: Huntington, Apartment E. White letters punched on black plastic.

Jackie walked up the stairs, knowing what he’d say to get things started, but not sure how it would play out. She opened the door, looking cute in her little Lakers tank top and sweatpants, a surprised look on her face.

He said, “Deborah Huntington?” and left it at that, curious to see how she’d react.

She nodded and said nothing, waiting to see where things were headed.

“It’s funny,” Jackie said, “but you’re a dead ringer for someone I know. Gal named Sandra Clark. Ever been told that?”

She just shrugged.

“And Sandra is a very bad girl. Wrote a check--a very large check--bounced so high, it hasn’t come down yet.”

She said, “How the hell did you find me?” New England accent gone. Sounding tough now, just like the girl on the Sopranos.

Jackie thinking she was being pretty cool about it.

He said, “Were you aware that writing an NSF check with intent to defraud is a felony? A violation of Penal Code 476a?”

“I’m not saying anything,” she said, “until I speak with my lawyer.” Defiant, not scared.

His kind of woman.

Jackie figured it was fate that brought him here. If Ted hadn’t visited, Jackie knew he wouldn’t have thought up the real estate scam. And if he hadn’t run the ad on that particular day, maybe Deborah wouldn’t have seen it. Best of all, if he hadn’t misplaced his phone at the house, Frank wouldn’t have used hers--and her name, number and address wouldn’t have ended up on his caller ID.

But here he was. So fuck the “ifs.” Some things were just meant to be.

She stepped aside as he moved forward, inside the place now. A small single: sofa, club chair, and entertainment center on one side of the room; kitchenette on the other. Jackie sat down on the sofa, facing her. She was still standing in the doorway.

“As best I can figure it,” he said, “you were working some kind of con on the guy. Making him think you had money, lots of it. Setting him up for something big.”

She closed the door and came over to sit on the chair across from him.

Jackie said, “It’s strange, isn’t it? Once a mark thinks you don’t need the money, they can’t help but give it to you. You know what I mean.”

She nodded, leaning toward him now.

“But when they do,” Jackie said, “it’s your money. And you don’t feel the least bit guilty about it. I mean, you earned it. Right?”

She was still nodding.

“Crazy thing, it bothered me when I thought I was stealing your money. I would have done it, no problem. But it would’ve bothered me.”

She was looking him square in the eye now. “George,” she said, “just who the fuck are you?”

“Different times, I’m different people. Whoever I need to be to get things done. Know what I mean?” He extended his hand. “But to my friends, I’m Jackie.”

She shook his hand gently, a little longer than she had to, saying, “Where are we going with this, Jackie?”

He smiled. “Not sure. We could talk about it over dinner.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, you know The Ivy? Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston eat there all the time.”

“I’ve been there once or twice. Don’t you just love their Cajun prime rib?” She gave him her cute, devilish look and said, “But it’s expensive. Who’s going to pay?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why don’t we make it a test? See who can outcon who.”