There was a guy named Billy who lived in New York. He was married with two kids, and he worked as a mechanic. Billy wasn't very rich—he had just enough money to take care of his family, but by the 26th or 27th of each month, they'd run short and have to cut back until his salary came on the 30th. Still, he was generally quite happy.
Billy's mother lived on the north side of New York, while he stayed on the east side. She lived alone, and every evening at 6 o'clock, Billy would call her. They'd talk for half an hour—she'd tell him about her day, what she did with her friends, and all the gossip from the New York Times, which she read religiously every day. Every Sunday, she'd come visit Billy and his family for lunch.
Every Friday, Billy's wife and kids would go out to the movies. Billy didn't like movies at all, so he'd stay home alone. This was their ritual.
One Friday evening, Billy called his mother as usual. But this was back when there were only landline phones, no mobile phones. Something strange happened—there was a cross connection, and instead of reaching his mother, he overheard two other people talking.
Usually, if you got a cross connection, you'd just hang up. But Billy was intrigued. Two men were whispering in hushed tones.
"Hey, listen," one said. "Tomorrow afternoon, the plan is set. Go to Yorkshire Lane on the east end. There's a bookshop there called Edison's End. Ask for the New York Times. Give him a hundred-dollar bill. He'll only give you seventy-five cents change, just for show. Then he'll hand you an envelope with a hundred thousand dollars inside. This is your payoff for the work you did. Do it very hush-hush. Take the money and disappear. Never show your face in that shop again. Understand?"
"Alright, what time?" the other man asked.
"Around 7 o'clock tomorrow."
Billy's heart raced. He thought, "My God, I've heard this secret information. What should I do?" He was very tempted. With a hundred thousand dollars, he could buy a car, put money in the bank, take care of his family properly. But he was also scared—these were gangsters. They might come after him.
The next day, Billy decided to try. But they didn't even have a hundred dollars. He searched his pockets—only thirty-two dollars. His wife had a locked cupboard. He broke the lock and found another twenty five dollars. Then he remembered he kept fifty dollars in his passport for emergencies. Now he had a hundred and seven dollars.
He went to his friend's shop next door. "Can you give me a hundred-dollar bill for this?" he asked. His friend finally found one and gave him the hundred-dollar bill and seven dollars in change.
Billy's hands were shaking. His lips were quivering. He was terrified but determined. He took a bus, then a train to the east end. He found Edison's End bookshop. Someone was buying chewing gum, so he waited. Then he confidently walked up, put down the hundred-dollar bill, and said, "New York Times, please."
The shopkeeper looked at him, took the hundred dollars, gave him the New York Times, returned only seventy-five cents, and slipped a fat envelope inside the newspaper. "Go," he said.
Billy grabbed it and shot out of the shop. As he was leaving, a big, bulky, bald man in a black t-shirt—about six feet tall—was walking in. Billy crashed into him and ran away, thinking this might be the gangster coming for the money.
He jumped into a taxi, even though he didn't have money for it. Paranoid that someone was following him, he changed taxis three or four times, took trains, went in circles for an hour before finally getting home. He was shaking and sweating, constantly feeling the envelope in his pocket. It felt thick, but he didn't have the courage to open it yet.
He got home, drank a glass of water, and tried to calm down. His wife and kids were due back from the movie in about half an hour. It was already 6:20.
Then the phone rang. He got really scared. It was his mother.
"Hey, Billy, it's 6:20. You didn't call me. I've been waiting twenty minutes. What happened?"
He tried to sound normal. "Oh, sorry, Mommy, I was very busy doing something."
"She's gone to the movies."
"Okay, okay. You know what? Today I was reading the paper, and there's a really, really interesting story. There's a scam going on. People find out your number when you try to call somebody. They purposely create a cross connection and make it sound like you've got a wrong number. Then they'll say somebody is handing over a hundred thousand dollars. You go to this particular shop, give a hundred dollars, they'll give you change for seventy-five cents and an envelope. These people think they're really smart and can outsmart the gangsters. But when they come home and open the envelope, there's only a small booklet inside that says, 'How to Make $100,000'—and it's just a hundred-dollar book with nothing in it. Many people have fallen for this scam. Be careful, okay?"
By this time, Billy's face was covered with sweat. He was so embarrassed. He had broken his daughters' piggy bank, broken his wife's cupboard, taken his emergency savings, borrowed money—and now a hundred dollars was gone.
He looked at the envelope. It was still thick. But he was too embarrassed to open it. "Oh my God," he thought. "If my wife sees this silly booklet, she'll be so angry at me."
Without even opening it, he went to the kitchen. Behind the kitchen was a big garbage chute—the kind they have in New York. He opened it and threw the envelope down without looking inside.
"I'll somehow explain to my wife and children why I broke their piggy bank," he thought, wiping the sweat off his face.
Then—ring, ring—the doorbell rang.
He opened the door. Standing there was the same big, fat, bald man from the bookshop, covered in tattoos, holding a big knife. He had two other men with him. They barged in, grabbed Billy by the collar, and shouted, "You! You took our hundred thousand dollars! Where is our money?"
As it turned out, this time it wasn't a scam. He had actually gotten a real cross connection. He had actually taken real gangster money. And now it was in the garbage chute.
Billy stammered, "See, boss, I threw it in the chute. I thought this was a scam."
"Is this really a scam? Show us where the chute is!"
They opened the chute and shoved his head inside, about to throw him down.
At that exact moment, the doorbell rang and the phone rang at the same time.
Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
And the story ends there.
