“Thank you.” I smile, looking at the picture and making a face, tilting my head slightly. “Oh no, your collar is a mess. Let me just…” He chuckles, leaning down toward me. I reach up, appearing to adjust his collar, but instead, I gently nudge the arm of his sunglasses. They slip off his head, falling to the ground. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!” I say, dropping down to grab them.
He starts to bend down, too, but I’m faster. My fingers close around the sunglasses, and with a practiced flick of my wrist, I make them vanish into my bag before he even realizes what’s happened.
I straighten up, holding out my empty hand as if I’m still searching for them. “Did they fall under something?” I ask, glancing around, playing up the confusion.
He looks around, too, scratching his head, clearly puzzled. “Damn, must’ve rolled off somewhere,” he mutters, still looking. I take that as my cue to step away, and I melt back into the crowd easily.
Weaving through the tourists, my heart is pounding as I put distance between us. Once I’m far enough away, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the sunglasses in my hand, sending it to the unknown number.
Way too easy.
Just a moment later, my phone vibrates.
Agreed. Ready for the next one?
What now? Want me to steal a child’s candy?
What’s the use of this anyway? The twins know I have sticky fingers.
Let’s see if you’ve got the tricks to outplay the players.
Find the guy on Fremont Street running a Three-Card Monte game. I want the ace of hearts from his deck.
When I read which card he wants me to steal, I swallow hard and take some deep breaths.
I can do this. It’s only a card.
Piece of cake.
Less talk, more action.
I’m already halfway there, and when I get to Fremont Street, it’s alive with its own kind of energy—vibrant colors, live music, and the hum of people looking for trouble or a good time. It doesn’t take me long to spot the Three-Card Monte table. The con artist, a tall guy with slicked-back hair and a sly grin, is shuffling the cards expertly, his hands a blur as he moves the queen around.
I watch from a distance, taking in his rhythm. He’s good, but I’ve seen better. He’s got a small crowd gathered, tourists eager to try their luck, and I can already tell he’s fleecing them without breaking a sweat. Edging toward the outskirts of the group, I keep my eyes on his hands.
The Three-Card Monte is one of the oldest scams in the book. It’s a classic street hustle where the dealer shuffles three cards—two black, one red—making you bet on finding the queen. It looks simple, but that’s the point. A game like this isn’t built on sleight of hand alone, though his fingers are quick. It’s built on psychological pressure.
The setup is almost as old as the trick itself. The operator works with a team, even if you don’t see them, bystanders who appear as random players, hyping up the game, pretending to win. It’s all about planting the seed, building your confidence,making you thinkyoucan win. Every toss at the start? It’s straight. The queen lands exactly where you think it is. You watch them win over and over, and FOMO kicks in hard.
And then comes the real trick. The moment you place your money on the table, convinced you’ve got it figured out, the sleight of hand happens. A flick of the wrist, a twitch of a finger, and the queen is no longer where she’s supposed to be. Even if you know what to watch for, you can’t win. They condition you, then crush you, and they know the Dunning-Kruger effect will do the rest. That little voice in your head telling you you’re smarter than the hustler? That’s how they get you.
“Who’s next? Who thinks they can find the queen?” the dealer calls out confidently. A few tourists step forward, money in hand, but I hang back, watching his ploy. I can see his arrogance. He’s been pulling this same tired con for years, and no one’s ever called him on it. But I see it, the flick of his wrist when he switches the queen. His movements are fast but not perfect. The way his hand hovers a fraction longer over the switched card gives him away.
The tourists don’t notice, too focused on the chaos of the shuffle. One man steps forward with a grin and places a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the queen. The operator’s grin widens like a snake sensing prey.
“Bad move,” I mutter under my breath.
When the volunteering tourist loses, as he inevitably does, I step forward, a big smile playing on my lips. “Can I try, please?”
He looks me up and down, his grin widening. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Think your eyes are as good as they are pretty?”
I shrug, pulling out a small bill and placing it on the table. “I guess we’ll see.”
He starts shuffling the cards again, the queen moving between the two others, his hands a practiced dance, and the cards little more than flashes of white, black, and red. I watchcarefully and notice where he does the swap, but I choose wrong on purpose. I need to figure out where he keeps his deck of cards and how the fuck I’m going to get the ace of hearts from him.
I assume Mr. Unknown doesn’t want me to simply ask him for it.
But I can’t fan the guy while he’s sitting like that, and there’s a table between us, so I’ll have to figure it out by only watching him.
