The Pea Game

Shills and Shells

“It’s the talk that’s important,” Serge insisted, about the pea game. Each forceful word sent a curl of smoke into his own eyes. “Not the hands. The skill is the talk.” His fingers idly spun and twirled a matchbox as he spoke. “Why you want to know this? Why you ask me?”

Because we’d watched him work the crowds earlier in the day, watched him cheat a steady stream of happy-go-lucky vacationers. Because we’d watched his team of almost a dozen men take in bets of $3 minimum, up to $75, and no one ever won. And because we hadn’t expected this opportunity, this impromptu interview with an eminent operator.

It was past 10 p.m. when Bob and I began our stroll up Copenhagen’s Vesterbrogade, away from Tivoli, away from the maddening throngs of holiday-makers, away from the Swedes who swarm over by ferry or the new bridge for a night of cheap beer. The wide avenue got darker and quieter as we walked west, the shops more utilitarian and drab.

As we approached and passed a small restaurant, a diner at an outside table leered at me, swinging his huge head like a dashboard-dog’s as I passed. His lewd look was piercing enough that I turned back, only to see the man’s head swiveled backwards on his shoulders, eyes still fixed on me.

“I’ve got to go talk to him,” Bob said abruptly. Strange: I could have sworn he hadn’t noticed the man’s stare; neither is Bob the type to challenge a man for a glance. Feeling hostile and squeamish, I hung back, concealed and feeling protected by a sidewalk sign.

Bob was smiling! I crept a little closer. Speaking in German. I made out a bit of it. Bob was asking the man about immigration policies in Denmark, but I hadn’t the faintest idea why. They spoke for several minutes before Bob rejoined me.

“Who is he?” I asked, half mad, half curious.

“One of the three-shell guys we saw today.”

“You’re kidding, a pea game guy! Did you ask him about it?”

“No, I just asked him about immigration. He’s from Kosovo.”

“But let’s go back and ask him about the pea game!” I said, going from zero to zeal in an instant. “What luck!”

We returned to the con man and his partner as they sat before empty dinner plates, each enjoying beers and cigarettes. The big head swung around to look me up and down, unapologetically. Perhaps it was second nature for him to appraise his opponents.

“Serge” was reluctant to spill his guts to strangers. It took considerable chit-chat before he warmed to us even a bit. Our conversation shifted back and forth between elementary English and rudimentary German.

Gently, we hinted that we’d seen him in Strøget, the pedestrian shopping street, that afternoon. He looked from me to Bob, questioningly. Yes, we’d seen him doing the three-shell game; he appeared to be quite proficient. We saw him take in large sums.

Serge smiled nervously, trapped in his seat as Bob and I stood at the edge of his table. His younger partner sat silently, lacking English and German.

“I make the game also,” Bob confided, “but only on stage. I’m a magician.”

Serge visibly relaxed a notch. He balanced his cigarette pack on its corner and spun it under a fingertip, considering.

“There is not trick,” he tried, “just talk and fun.”

“I know the game. I’m interested in you. How many in your team?”

“Eight. Sometimes ten. Many men to share money.”

Serge had been operating the three-shell game for twenty years. First in his native Kosovo, then in Germany for six years, and finally in Copenhagen. Having fled the war in Yugoslavia, he had no papers in Denmark, he told us. What else could he do? How could he earn money?

“This job,” he said, “it is just to make fun for the tourists.” Palms up, fingers spread, shoulders hunched. “People see that it’s easy to win; they want to play.”

This is Part 3.
Read Part 1.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Eight: Con Artists and their Games of No Chance