middle of the night. I’ll get him in. Getting him in, believe me, I’ll have no fucking trouble.”
“Can we rent a fucking dog?” Ralphie asked.
“No,” Sal admitted. “I mean, I tried. Believe me. I had a guy fucking train one for me. He wanted like twenty grand.”
Finally Sal came up with his version of Ocean’s Eleven, a brilliant plan in its own right: selling swag on the Internet.
“The fucking thing really works, huh?” Ralphie asked.
“Sell it in no time... I don’t give a fuck what it is, you can sell anything. Any fucking thing.”
Ralphie said, “Anything and it doesn’t come back to you.”
“How can it come back?” Sal asked. “They don’t even know who I am and shit. I bought it in a flea market. Who’s to say I didn’t buy it in a flea market? You should’ve seen some of the shit I sold on there. Forget about it.”
Ralphie said, “Are you serious?”
“Ridiculous shit,” said Sal. “Comic books are one of the hottest items on there.”
The idea was simple: Sal had a friend who was an expert in rare comic books. Pay somebody to draw a fake version of the first Superman comic or the first Batman comic, have Sal’s pal check it to make sure it looks real, print up a thousand copies, and sell them on the ’net. Simple.
“That would kill the comic industry,” Sal said.
“Will it?” Ralphie asked. “Nobody ever did that, huh?”
Sal said, “Nobody every fucking thought of it before. I got such an evil mind, only because I know the big shots in the business. I’ve talked to him. He says if you can make me a book where I can’t tell the difference between mine and yours, it’s going to make millions. We’ll make fucking millions. Duplicating it, it’s cheap fucking rag paper... We made fucking two hundred Superman Ones, for the next ten years, fifteen years, we’re sitting pretty. We buy property all over the place.”
Ralph said, “No shit.”
Sal said, “Superman One is worth a hundred fifty thousand dollars, tops... Then, after, we make copies of Batman One at eighty thousand. Now we push one of each out of every fucking—”
Ralphie said, “And you think we could sell them?”
Sal said, “I don’t think. I know. Yeah. There’s always something. As long as you keep your fucking eyes open, and you got an evil mind like me. You can always see something. I got an evil fucking mind.”
The more Ralphie performed, the better he got. Within days he was testing his limits, seeing what he could get away with. He openly discussed his ability to listen in on other people’s cell-phone conversations. It was a kind of test, this talk.
“I listen in on everybody’s phone calls,” said Ralphie, who at that moment was secretly recording his friend’s words. “I can sit five blocks from your house and listen to every conversation.”
Sal: “You’re a fucking electronic whiz.”
Ralph: “Everything you’re talking about.”
Sal: “On the portable?”
Ralph: “On the portable.”
Sal: “But on the regular phone, no.”
Ralph: “No, just on the cordless.”
Sal: “I never knew that.”
Ralph: “Everything you’re talking about I can hear and record.”
Sal: “That’s terrific.”
Ralph: “Sure. I love to know what’s going on. One day I was sitting on the fucking thing listening. I’m sitting on my desk playing on my computer. I hear two niggers talking on the cellular phone on my scanner. One says ‘All right, bro, we gonna take these motherfucking white boys. We’re gonna take this fucking hundred thirty thousand cash. We’re just gonna meet them on the corner and we’re gonna take this fucking hundred thirty grand and go two different ways.’ I’m sitting there going, ‘What fucking corner, you motherfuckers? Say what corner!’ I’m getting dressed, my wife says, ‘What are you doing?’ I says, ‘Nothing.’ I was waiting to say what corner they were going to rip these guys and I was gonna rip them off.” He pauses.
“I’m already fucking dressed,
“Can we rent a fucking dog?” Ralphie asked.
“No,” Sal admitted. “I mean, I tried. Believe me. I had a guy fucking train one for me. He wanted like twenty grand.”
Finally Sal came up with his version of Ocean’s Eleven, a brilliant plan in its own right: selling swag on the Internet.
“The fucking thing really works, huh?” Ralphie asked.
“Sell it in no time... I don’t give a fuck what it is, you can sell anything. Any fucking thing.”
Ralphie said, “Anything and it doesn’t come back to you.”
“How can it come back?” Sal asked. “They don’t even know who I am and shit. I bought it in a flea market. Who’s to say I didn’t buy it in a flea market? You should’ve seen some of the shit I sold on there. Forget about it.”
Ralphie said, “Are you serious?”
“Ridiculous shit,” said Sal. “Comic books are one of the hottest items on there.”
The idea was simple: Sal had a friend who was an expert in rare comic books. Pay somebody to draw a fake version of the first Superman comic or the first Batman comic, have Sal’s pal check it to make sure it looks real, print up a thousand copies, and sell them on the ’net. Simple.
“That would kill the comic industry,” Sal said.
“Will it?” Ralphie asked. “Nobody ever did that, huh?”
Sal said, “Nobody every fucking thought of it before. I got such an evil mind, only because I know the big shots in the business. I’ve talked to him. He says if you can make me a book where I can’t tell the difference between mine and yours, it’s going to make millions. We’ll make fucking millions. Duplicating it, it’s cheap fucking rag paper... We made fucking two hundred Superman Ones, for the next ten years, fifteen years, we’re sitting pretty. We buy property all over the place.”
Ralph said, “No shit.”
Sal said, “Superman One is worth a hundred fifty thousand dollars, tops... Then, after, we make copies of Batman One at eighty thousand. Now we push one of each out of every fucking—”
Ralphie said, “And you think we could sell them?”
Sal said, “I don’t think. I know. Yeah. There’s always something. As long as you keep your fucking eyes open, and you got an evil mind like me. You can always see something. I got an evil fucking mind.”
The more Ralphie performed, the better he got. Within days he was testing his limits, seeing what he could get away with. He openly discussed his ability to listen in on other people’s cell-phone conversations. It was a kind of test, this talk.
“I listen in on everybody’s phone calls,” said Ralphie, who at that moment was secretly recording his friend’s words. “I can sit five blocks from your house and listen to every conversation.”
Sal: “You’re a fucking electronic whiz.”
Ralph: “Everything you’re talking about.”
Sal: “On the portable?”
Ralph: “On the portable.”
Sal: “But on the regular phone, no.”
Ralph: “No, just on the cordless.”
Sal: “I never knew that.”
Ralph: “Everything you’re talking about I can hear and record.”
Sal: “That’s terrific.”
Ralph: “Sure. I love to know what’s going on. One day I was sitting on the fucking thing listening. I’m sitting on my desk playing on my computer. I hear two niggers talking on the cellular phone on my scanner. One says ‘All right, bro, we gonna take these motherfucking white boys. We’re gonna take this fucking hundred thirty thousand cash. We’re just gonna meet them on the corner and we’re gonna take this fucking hundred thirty grand and go two different ways.’ I’m sitting there going, ‘What fucking corner, you motherfuckers? Say what corner!’ I’m getting dressed, my wife says, ‘What are you doing?’ I says, ‘Nothing.’ I was waiting to say what corner they were going to rip these guys and I was gonna rip them off.” He pauses.
“I’m already fucking dressed,
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