In Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, one thing Nick Carraway reveals after meeting up with Tom and Daisy Buchanan is that his first instinct is to call the police. This is a great start to any story.
My first instinct was to call the police. His smile was too glowing. His eyebrows too congruent. His suit too enlivening . A normal person would have been at least a bit nervous, but he was still, calm, possessed. Even though all his attention, all his thoughts, all his existence was on me, he stood there, as casual as an overfed lion, waiting for me to answer without making me feel the least bit worried.
I was as calm as I could be. There was no conflict, no struggle. He did everything right. There was not one idea needing further explanation, not one word that was rushed, not one arm movement out of place. He even did me the service of averting his eyes and feigning distraction so that I would have some breathing room to decide. He took a step back or to the side, right when I felt that he was getting too close. I felt free to decide. Instead of pushing me toward his conclusion, he carefully guided me by the hand, the way one does someone’s grandmother down a creaky ramp.
When conmen or salesmen are too pushy with a conscientious person, they tend to back away. He made me believe that it was in my best interest and the interest of humanity that I give him all of my savings. When I said I would have get it to him in three days, he took an over controlled breath and cleared his throat, communicating his disapproval.
He was polished enough to not get frustrated. Dumb criminals get frustrated. Smart criminals, that is, uncaught criminals, just adjust their plans or move to another target. Criminals in jail always forgot there was a Plan B.
I didn’t know if he figured out that I was smarter than I appeared, or that I was just too dumb to understand how good his offer was. He was playing me and he did not know that I enjoyed being played. I liked his maneuvers, his rhetoric, his counters, and that at any time, I could stop the ruse and walk away. But I didn’t. I fancied his two-hundred percent return, of laying on island beaches forever, of putting the screws to the people seeking money from me.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted it to work out so that I could spend more time with him. Maybe it was just to be around someone who was so attentive. Or maybe I wanted to learn his craft. He was so pleasant. So full of manners and politeness. But a turning, grinding, hiccupping fire was in me: "Call the police. Call the police.
Tell him you’ll be right back and walk to your car. Or go into some boutique or shop or market, but do not continue talking to him. He already has your home address and your phone number and your bank information. But that is why you need to call the police. He will track you down. He will stay on the prowl. But if he is in police custody, then he can’t hurt you. And if you can keep him occupied until law enforcement arrives, then he will know that you are too calculating and too cunning, and he will always keep his distance."
What gave him away was his perfection. Real people, trustworthy people, honest folk always stop short of polishing out every flaw. They know their idea is worthy on its merit, even if there are flaws. But I didn’t call the police. I just stood there, listening.
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