Soak 'em if you got 'em.
— The Getter
Tommy Sauter said he was a banker, but Claire and I both doubted it. He was a mark though. I spotted him at a brewpub in Munster called The Foundry. He paid in Bitcoin.
Want to find Bitcoiners? Find places that accept Bitcoin.
Tommy's method for getting lucky was to drown women in booze. Claire got out when she realized she was applesauced, but she set up another date with him, the next night.
I said, "Before you even get to a second drink with this jackass, talk him into coming here, for a dip in the hot tub." He took the bait faster than you can say rutabagas, which isn't code for anything. It's just fun to say.
Rutabagas!!!
Claire met Tommy for drinks at 7. She had him here by 7:45. She was still hung over from the night before and in a foul mood. I knew they wouldn't be in the hot tub long. An hour, tops.
The guy had nineteen keys on his keychain. Absolutely inexcusable. He arrived with a bottle of Red Berry Cîroc. Claire said he wore a thong.
My God, by Darwin's Law, the universe practically demanded that Tommy The Saucer get got.
It took a half hour to copy his keys, plus another ten minutes to put them back on his myriad of tangled keychains in the exact same order.
I said, "This asshole better not be butterscotch!!!"
I know. I talk to myself a lot.
I returned his keys to his sportscoat and texted "Beefeater" to Claire. That was the All Cool which meant the job was done.
Ten minutes later, I overheard something about side-boob, as a perplexed Tommy was on his way out the door, muttering and cradling his left hand.
Claire said, "Muffinchucker got grabby. I handled it." Good job.
Two nights later, we were at it again. On the prowl, wandering through various coffee shops and bars, looking for marks.
Claire asked, "Is raspberry a thing?"
"It's in the produce aisle."
"No, Shay, on your left. That guy has a raspberry sticker on his laptop."
I asked Google.
Google said: "Raspberry Pi. A low cost computer."
"Nope. It's a tech-nerd thing, but not necessarily a tech-bro thing."
"What about a penguin?" she asked.
Google said: "Linux operating system."
"Another tech-nerd, Claire. No harm, no foul."
"Bros and their fucking logos!"
"This is stupid. Let's find a place that accepts Bitcoin. Let the marks come to us."
An hour later, we were at a bar in Calumet City called Smitty's. They had a Bitcoin ATM next to a dartboard and a mirror, presumably so anybody at the ATM can see if they're about to get hit by a dart.
I was at the bar, ordering a drink, when Claire found a mark.
She said, "Don't make it obvious when you look, but there's a guy walking this way. Skinny jeans. Chunky glasses. He just put a couple hundred bucks into the Bitcoin ATM. I got this. You can split. I'll text you if I get anywhere."
Alas, Skinny Jeans was not to be. He said he had a boyfriend, which meant even if he could be inspired to cheat, Claire wasn't his type.
But then, she had a thought.
"Maybe the boyfriend's bi? Why didn't I think of that?!? Find one, you find the other."
Smitty's became one of our favorite spots to troll for marks. Sure enough, Claire found Skinny Jeans there a week later and she reeled in the boyfriend. "I hear you're seeing somebody," she said. "That's a shame. You're cute."
The boyfriend said, "It's okay. We're in an open relationship." Sure they were.
His name was Peter, not Pete. He made that clear. As if it mattered.
He was a big fan of Billy Joel. For their date, he arrived at the house with two bottles of wine.
"A bottle of red, a bottle of white. Whatever fits the mood tonight," he sang, as if Claire should get the reference, even though the song was from decades before she was born, and that's not how the song goes, and also, shut the fuck up, Peter. Get in the hot tub!
Peter's keychain only had two keys. I named them Easy and Peasy, because I copied them in less than four minutes. Claire got stuck with him for three hours. Oof.
The next night, we were at Smitty's again, on the prowl.
We found a mark named Cal.
Cal Liddy, in Calumet City? Come on, bro. Hang out somewhere else.
Cal was driving a Tesla with a vanity plate that said HODL IT. He had a girlfriend with him, but Claire still managed to get his number. That girl knows how to get 'em.
An hour later, a different guy caught Claire watching his phone as he tapped on an app. Everybody's in public these days, staring at their phones.
The guy turned to Claire and said, "Are you watching me?"
She twirled her hair and said, "You're cuuute."
Of course he bought her a fucking drink.
He said his name was Floyd, and unfortunately for him, it was. Why do parents do that to a kid? Can't shorten it. Can't nickname it. Can't even say it without getting a raised eyebrow.
You know I'm right. You're about to do it, now. Watch.
Claire spotted FLOYD using Coinbase, an online exchange for buying and selling Bitcoin. FLOYD was a mark.
Two hours later, I got a text that said they were on their way. Actually, the text was a reminder to pick up some Florida Limes, which wasn't totally clear, but I figured it out.
Florida Limes meant FLOYD was on the line.
Clever!
Okay, fine, I didn't figure it out, but she explained it to me later. The system was a work in progress.
She got him in the hot tub. That's the point.
FLOYD had a "Don't Talk To Me Until I've Had My Coffee" keychain, which was way too much text on a tiny thing, and quite frankly, I was glad to not talk to him at all. He had nine keys. I copied 'em in fifteen minutes. That included the time it took to put 'em back on his damn keychain, and I shredded my nails in the process. Fuck you and your keychain too, FLOYD.
An hour later, Claire texted me:
"Florida Apricots?"
("Floyd's keys already got?")
"Grapes, on the vine," I replied.
Soak 'em if you got 'em, then send 'em away.