By Frank W. Abagnale
Frank W. Abagnale, alias Frank Williams, Robert Conrad, Frank Adams, and Robert Monjo, used to be probably the most bold con males, forgers, imposters, and break out artists in history. In his short yet infamous legal profession, Abagnale donned a pilot's uniform and copiloted a Pan Am jet, masqueraded because the supervising resident of a clinic, practiced legislations with out a license, handed himself off as a faculty sociology professor, and cashed over $2.5 million in solid tests, all ahead of he was once twenty-one. identified by means of the police of twenty-six international international locations and all fifty states as "The Skywayman," Abagnale lived a luxurious existence at the lam-until the legislation stuck up with him. Now famous because the nation's major authority on monetary foul play, Abagnale is an enthralling rogue whose hilarious, stranger-than-fiction foreign escapades, and creative escapes-including one from an airplane-make capture Me should you Can an impossible to resist story of deceit.The uproarious, bestselling real tale of the world's so much sought-after con guy at the moment in improvement as a DreamWorks characteristic film."I stole each nickel and blew it on high-quality threads, sumptuous accommodations, incredible foxes, and different sensual goodies. I partied in each capital in Europe and basked on the entire world's most renowned beaches."
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Extra info for Catch me if you can: the amazing true story of the youngest and most daring con man in the history of fun and profit
They have an innate perception of right and wrong, and common sense prevails. But there’s also a type of person whose competitive instincts override reason. They are challenged by a given situation in much the same manner a climber is challenged by a tall peak: because it’s there. Right or wrong are not factors, nor are consequences. These people look on crime as a game, and the goal is not just the loot; it’s the success of the venture that counts. Of course, if the booty is bountiful, that’s nice, too.
Grabbed the Yellow Pages and looked up Pan Am’s number. I dialed the main switchboard number and asked to speak to someone in the purchasing department. I was connected promptly. ” Like Caesar at the Rubicon, I cast the die. “Yes,” I said. ” I paused for his reaction, my heart thumping. “Yes, what can I do for you, Mr. ” He was courteous and matter-of-fact and I plunged ahead. “We flew a trip in here at eight o’clock this morning, and I’m due out of here this evening at seven,” I said. I plucked the flight times from thin air and hoped he wasn’t familiar with Pan Am’s schedules.
I was especially interested in the plastic-enclosed cards, obviously identification of some sort, that most of the pilots sported on their breasts. The stewardesses, I observed, had similar ID cards but had them clipped to their purse straps. A couple of pilots were scanning notices tacked on a large bulletin board in the lobby. I stopped and pretended to look at some of the notices, FAA or Pan Am memos mostly, and was afforded a close-up view of one pilot’s ID card. It was slightly larger than a driver’s license and similar to the one in my pocket, save for a passport-sized color photograph of the man in the upper right-hand corner and Pan American’s firm name and logo across the top in the company’s colors.