Scrolling through my inbox one night, I was alarmed to see this notice: “Invoice. Past Due.” I clicked on it, and found I was being dunned $700 for mac ‘n cheese.
Now I am very fond of mac ‘n cheese, but I have never ordered it in $700 lots.
Oh, you fool: I’ve been covering phishing as a reporter for years, and should have known better than to click through to something like this.
And they weren’t done with me. They called on the phone, and a thuggish voice that sounded strangely familiar, said, “You owe us $700. Pay up now or we’ll sue your ass.”
This time, my reporter’s instincts kicked in and I said, “I have to pay by check. Where do I send it?” The voice showed no hesitation at all in giving me an address in Ridgewood, Queens.
Wow—I had succeeded in getting the address of a phishing operation, and it wasn’t even in Moscow. I decided to push my luck.
“Who should I make it out to?” I asked.
“Taylor Securities,” the voice said.
So–it was the Taylor family. I might have known. I promptly notified a detective who specializes in online fraud, and he agreed to meet me at the location.
I set out for Ridgewood the next day, with visions of the Pulitizer Prize in my head. But I got off the subway one stop too early, and had to walk miles before I arrived at the address.
I was suffering from fatigue and extreme dehydration by the time I reached the location: a two-story slum factory building. I went upstairs in the freight elevator, and was immediately confronted by the goon Sonny Taylor.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to discuss my bill,” I said.
“I need your customer number and password,” he said.
“Oh, come off it, Sonny,” I ‘said. “What kind of scam are you guys running?”
He moved toward me and said, “You could end up on the train tracks.”
His brother Sid Taylor stuck his head out of a back room, and said, “Who gave this fake news artist our address?” Then I thought I heard him say, “Waste him.”
Just in time, my detective friend walked in with a federal investigator and two uniformed officers. They announced that three members of the Taylor family were wanted for questioning: Sid, Sonny and their CEO, one Rose Taylor.
I soon found out that Rose Taylor was their 97 year-old mother. “You lousy crooked cops!” she snarled as they led her out. Then she kicked Sonny in the shins and said, “you stupid oaf.”
As often happens, Sid seemed to have disappeared during this melee.
There was no room for me in the cop’s car, so I found my way into a narrow subway entrance where I and everyone else went through the gate for free.
The Pulitzer committee still hasn’t contacted me. But I did get a call from someone who sounded like Sid Taylor. He told me I should send my check to a post office box in Hackensack, New Jersey.
(Of course, any resemblance to persons living or dead, or to any companies, is strictly coincidental).
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