“These lonely old ladies are such patsies.” Carlton Fitzgerald smiled wickedly to himself. “They’re all the same. Flash a smile, listen to their boring sob stories, flash some fancy brochures about some non-existent gold mines, lie about how another little old lady got rich investing in the same mines, talk them into giving their life savings to you in cash so they ‘won’t have to deal with those greedy IRS agents,’ then split.” This was the fourth little old lady he’d bilked in the last two months. “It’s almost like shooting fish in a barrel, only easier.” He gloated.
He flashed his best “You can trust me” smile as she held the large bag of cash, hesitating. Her hands were shaking.
“But this is all I have. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it.” Her voice trembled and was barely audible. The frail woman had to be pushing 90.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Martha. I gave you a written guarantee that this gold mine will double your money in less than six months, didn’t I? How could I do that unless gold was gushing out of the mines?”
“Well, since I have the written guarantee, I guess it’s safe.” She held out the old bag. He took it and said, “You won’t regret this.” He turned toward the door and crashed into all 6’ 4” 235 pounds of Detective John Marston who’d been waiting in a bedroom for this moment.
The creep was cuffed and his rights were read to him. Martha smiled. “Well, John. How’d I do?”
“You did great, Aunt Martha.”
“That was fun. Can we do it again sometime?”