671-675

*Chapter 671: Perseverance in the Face of Setbacks*

Clearly, young Frank was in trouble.

Around midnight, the hotel manager, clutching his pajama collar, mercilessly tossed the disheveled young Frank out of the hotel.

In fact, the kind-hearted manager had already been lenient; two checks that young Frank had written had bounced, causing the hotel manager himself to get into trouble. Despite young Frank’s repeated explanations that the bank made an error, the poor manager didn’t want to drag himself further into the mire.

Thus, young Frank was thrown out of the hotel.

In the end, he had no choice but to spend the night at a roadside motel amidst the nightlife of the city.

In this desperate situation, young Frank had a sudden inspiration—

Checks.

He began to manipulate his checkbook, creating fake checks and assuming false identities, brazenly heading to the bank to cash them.

However, he met with failure.

Lies? Not a problem; he was a natural at fabricating elaborate stories.

No.

A ray of sunlight pierced through the layers of dark clouds, illuminating the glass before reflecting onto the side of young Frank’s face. The golden glow outlined the contours of his handsome profile. His bright blue eyes sparkled, like a miracle; the gentle breeze tousling his hair made him look even more elegant and striking.

If one plan didn’t work, it didn’t matter. Young Frank brought out the trick his father used when renting a black suit: a gold chain.

The pilot, with the aura of a star, entered the luxurious hotel before him. The hotel lobby manager personally came out to greet him, and even a little kid rushed over to ask the pilot for an autograph. The afternoon sun in New York made the entire space gleam with golden splendor, and the world suddenly became brighter.

Young Frank stopped in his tracks. Ahead of him, a taxi pulled up, and a tall man in a pilot's uniform stepped out first, followed by a variety of flight attendants, each with a different charm—

Even though he had run away from home, young Frank still regularly sent telegrams to old Frank, ensuring his father knew he was safe. These messages made old Frank extremely happy, bringing a long-lost smile back to his face.

Of course not.

After yet another rejection from the bank, young Frank left dejectedly, his brow furrowed and steps heavy, as if his thoughts were tripping up his feet.

Does anyone still remember the summary from the fake TV show at the beginning?

"Dear Father,

Following closely behind the pilot and flight attendants into the hotel, young Frank stood there in a daze, watching the scene unfold.

Love, your son, Frank."

So, was young Frank really planning to become a pilot?

I have decided to become a pilot. I’ve applied to all the airlines, and my schedule is filled with hopeful interview invitations.

One. Two. Three.

At sixteen, young Frank was still too green and inexperienced. His little tricks were no match for the banks’ rules and regulations:

Simple lies? They didn’t work.

Just then.

The world shifted into slow motion.

The small taxi seemed like a magician's hat, continually producing a variety of beautiful women, the atmosphere filled with laughter and harmony.

What a pity.

What about mom? Have you called her lately?

Young Frank successfully impersonated a pilot and flew for over two million miles for free.

In the opening of the movie, Steven Spielberg had already given it all away. But even if you don’t remember, it’s okay, because Steven is leading the audience into this thrilling adventure through his camera lens.

After facing setbacks at the bank, young Frank realized that his little tricks and lies might not work in society. He needed to be fully prepared.

So—

Young Frank used his identity: a high school student.

He posed as a reporter for the high school newspaper, openly scheduling an interview with Pan Am's New York office, claiming he was writing an article for the school paper to tell students how to become pilots.

Age. Identity.

These factors, which were disadvantages when cashing checks at the bank, became the perfect disguise here, easily disarming the defenses of the Pan Am office.

Faced with the curiosity of a high school student, no one would refuse their admiring gaze.

"Every pilot has two things they must carry with them."

"One is the airline employee badge, and the other is the Federal Aviation Administration license, like this one."

The gentleman took a license from his wallet and showed it to young Frank.

Young Frank accepted the license with great surprise, looking up excitedly. "Sir, can I make a copy of this for my article?"

The gentleman was generous. "Oh, Frank, you can take it. It expires in three years anyway."

Young Frank quickly slipped the license into his pocket. "Thank you. And what about your employee badge? Do you have an extra one I can borrow?"

The gentleman laughed cheerfully. "I’m afraid I can't help with that. These must be specially ordered from the Polaroid Company, and the only way to get one is to become a real Pan Am pilot."

But is that really the case?

Young Frank used a public phone to call Pan Am’s headquarters, stating that his uniform had been lost by the hotel laundry department in New York.

The procurement department at Pan Am was not surprised; this kind of thing happened every so often. They gave young Frank an address to go for a custom uniform.

Moreover, the best part was that this uniform supplier didn't accept checks or cash. They only needed the employee’s ID number, and they would bill Pan Am, which would deduct the amount from the payroll.

For young Frank, who was currently penniless and whose checks couldn’t be cashed but had a real Pan Am employee license, this was perfect.

"Dear Dad,

You always told me that an honest man has nothing to fear, so I try not to be afraid. I’m sorry I ran away, but you don’t have to worry. I’m going to get it all back now, Dad.

I promise. It will all come back."

Dashing and elegant—

Dressed in the pilot’s uniform, young Frank easily became the center of attention. His tall, slender figure, handsome face, and the addition of the uniform made him a bright sight on the streets of New York.

Men were envious, women were admiring, and even little girls of six or seven looked up at him in awe.

As he walked, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Despite the crowded streets, nothing hindered or disturbed young Frank’s stride.

Unhindered, striding confidently, young Frank once again entered the bank.

"… Seventy, eighty, ninety. One hundred dollars."

This time, without any effort, young Frank cashed the check, easily getting one hundred dollars in cash.

Not only that, but the bank branch manager also personally came forward to greet him, without any suspicion of young Frank’s identity. He sincerely thanked the pilot for coming to his branch and looked forward to seeing him again.

Later.

When young Frank returned to the five-star hotel, the treatment was completely different. But young Frank was still unsure, his tone slightly hesitant.

"Can I use a personal check to pay for the room?"

The lobby manager replied, "Of course. For airline employees, we can cash a personal check for up to one hundred dollars; for salary checks, the limit is three hundred dollars."

Young Frank’s eyes lit up.

*Chapter 672: Soaring Above the Clouds*

Not long ago, Old Frank gave Little Frank his first personal checkbook, introducing him to the new world of banking and credit.

Now, the hotel lobby manager opened another door to a whole new world for Little Frank: a salary check guaranteed by the employer.

And so...

Little Frank set his mind on the salary check of his new identity as "Pilot Frank Taylor." He needed to forge a salary check based on his experience.

So, how should he do it?

Step one, on a completely blank check, type the basic information with a typewriter—

Since the maximum cashable amount for a salary check is three hundred dollars, this salary check for Frank Taylor would be $299.12.

Step two, soak a Pan Am plane model in the bathtub until the adhesive on the decals loosens, then carefully use tweezers to remove the Pan Am logo sticker from the tail of the model and place it on the top left corner of the check.

Step three, place the check in a thick book to flatten, absorb moisture, and dry it.

Finally...

Put on a uniform, dress up properly, head to the bank, and find a window where a beautiful lady is the teller. Hand her the salary check, and when you notice her trying to verify the check's authenticity, smile and be as relaxed and natural as possible, looking into her eyes with a clear gaze.

"Sorry, I’m sure you get this all the time, but you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."

Sincere, straightforward.

And don’t look away until you see her cheeks blush under your gaze.

The lady shyly lowers her eyes, "Yes, I hear that often." Her smile blossoms fully, "What denominations would you like to cash?"

Success.

Everything happens just like that, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

So...

The hotel bathtub is filled with airplane models, and Little Frank carefully lays the forged salary checks on the room floor:

Neatly arranged, a dazzling display, covering the entire carpeted space.

Occasionally, things might hit a snag.

For example, the bank might need to wait for a cash delivery, and they won't be able to cash the check until an hour after opening.

But that's okay; the bank manager points Little Frank in a new direction:

Go to the airport to cash the check.

Little Frank: ???

"Airport? Who cashes checks at the airport?"

Clearly, Little Frank has no clue.

The bank manager is slightly surprised but doesn't suspect anything and continues explaining, "The airline itself, they always cash their own."

This is another new piece of knowledge.

When Little Frank arrives at the airport, he doesn't go directly to the Pan Am counter but heads to the TWA counter, which has a sharing agreement with Pan Am.

Little Frank hasn't even had a chance to take out the salary check when the ground staff at the counter smiles at him, "Are you my deadhead crew member?"

Little Frank: … "What?"

The smile freezes on his face.

Luckily, the staff doesn't suspect anything, thinking Little Frank just didn't hear, and repeats, "Are you my deadhead crew member for the flight to Miami?"

Little Frank blinks, and in his panic, he regains his composure, smiling, "Yes, yes. I am your deadhead crew member."

The staff smiles, "You're a bit late. But the jump seat in the cockpit is still available."

Little Frank is about to turn around and board the plane but hesitates for a moment. He turns back with a half-joking manner and looks at the staff, "It's been a while since I did this, so, where's the jump seat again?"

"Haha." The staff thinks Little Frank is joking, and it's a good joke, "Haha. Enjoy your trip."

So, what is a deadhead? And where is the jump seat?

A deadhead is essentially a crew member flying on a plane, sitting in the passenger cabin. They do not operate this particular flight and cannot serve as backup crew for it. Therefore, crew members who leave the cockpit to rest in the passenger cabin during the flight are not "deadheads."

The "deadhead's" task is to fly as a passenger to the destination and then operate another flight. This is quite common in regular commercial flights, such as going to different cities to help bring back sick crew members or launching a new route, and so on.

Generally, they are treated like regular passengers, with seats reserved for them on the flight.

However, if no seats are available, the jump seat comes into play.

A jump seat is a foldable seat used by crew members when there are no spare seats in the passenger cabin. It is also called a crew seat.

However, in 1964, the jump seat specifically referred to an extra foldable seat in the cockpit, apart from the pilot and co-pilot seats.

Little Frank vaguely grasps the meaning of the former, but as for the latter, having no knowledge of airplanes, he is clueless.

After boarding successfully, guided by a beautiful flight attendant, Little Frank enters the cockpit but can't find the jump seat anywhere.

Despite this, while nervously searching for the jump seat, Little Frank skillfully engages in small talk using the lingo of the cockpit.

The captain chats, "What do you fly, DC8?"

Little Frank, "707."

The captain immediately understands, "You just landed and are taking the red-eye back?"

It seems that the flight from Miami to New York was a 707.

Little Frank doesn't panic. Not only does he not panic, but he also pats the captain on the shoulder, trying to get friendly while hiding his embarrassment at looking for the jump seat, "I'll be flying back and forth intercontinental flights for the next few months, covering for those sick and tired people to earn some extra cash."

Clearly, Little Frank has understood the meaning of a deadhead.

The captain, being an experienced person, chuckles, "No need to be embarrassed; we've all been there."

But where the hell is the jump seat?

The pretty flight attendant seems to notice Little Frank's confusion. She wraps her arms around Little Frank's waist from behind, gently pulling him toward the door. She opens a box under the wall in the cockpit and pulls out a foldable chair—

A simple stool.

This is the jump seat.

Little Frank doesn't have time to lament this and immediately takes his seat.

The beauty flashes a smile, "What would you like to drink after takeoff?"

Little Frank, still in a state of shock, almost gives himself away, "Mi...milk." The words just slip out.

Pfft.

A low chuckle echoes in the screening room.

However, this is still not the end.

At the moment of takeoff, Little Frank, flying for the first time in his life, instinctively grabs the seat, trying with all his might to control his wildly beating heart. Yet, he still can't control himself. Both fearful and surprised, he watches the sunlight streaming through the window onto his face with utter astonishment.

Like a sixteen-year-old boy.

Chapter 673: Full Charisma On Display

Unstoppable! Unmatched!

Young Frank's "life of crime" has fully begun. He's slowly learning to use his good looks and charm to take shortcuts and achieve his goals.

Not only can he easily win over attractive flight attendants, but he also charms pretty bank tellers into teaching him about checks.

On the movie screen, Anson Wood shows a side we've never seen before. Whether it was "The Princess Diaries" or "Spider-Man," his handsomeness was never the defining trait of his characters. In some ways, Anson even had to hide his brilliance. But this movie gives him a platform.

Steven Spielberg uses close-up shots to fully showcase Anson's charm on the big screen.

When those clear and bright blue eyes gaze deeply into the camera, with soft golden-brown hair and defined features, his radiant and elegant smile is like sunlight piercing through the willow branches and gently rippling on the serene surface of a lake, mesmerizing viewers into losing themselves.

Thump. Thump.

Hearts pound hard against chests.

It's not just women; even men can't deny how pleasing this scene is to the eye.

Momentarily lost in thought, Melvin recalls his first meeting with Anson. Standing under the sunlight, sweating and beaming brightly like Apollo himself. A brief moment of distraction, and his attention is drawn back to the big screen, immersing him in the story.

There's no denying that Anson was made for the big screen.

In the end, young Frank buys a bank check typewriter at a bankruptcy auction, delving into professional territory from ink to font. This allows him to forge checks with more freedom and boldness, faking salaries and personal checks as he pleases.

The principle isn't complicated; the key is that no one had used it before.

In the lower-left corner of a check, there's a set of data—the routing number—that identifies the issuing bank's location.

The coding starts from Boston on the East Coast and follows the entire coastline from north to south, numbered from 01 to 06, then moves westward.

If a check's routing number is 02, it will be sent to the bank's New York branch for processing. But if you change the routing number to 12, it will go to the San Francisco branch instead.

In the 1960s, when transportation and communication weren't well-developed, a check sent from the East Coast to the West Coast could take up to two weeks or more to clear.

This means that when young Frank cashes a check with a routing number of 12 in New York, the bank wouldn't realize a counterfeit check was issued for the next two weeks. He has plenty of time to change cities and banks, continuing to cash fake checks under different identities.

This is how young Frank truly becomes a "pilot"—

Traveling between different cities, staying in various hotels, attending high-class events, surrounded by beautiful women, living lavishly and freely, like a winner in life.

Because of this, young Frank finally gathers the courage to face his family, inviting old Frank to meet at a fancy restaurant in New York.

However, the father who used to be high and mighty, all-knowing and all-powerful, suddenly seems timid, small, and... aged.

He doesn't know the proper way to use the silverware at the restaurant. When young Frank gives him the keys to a brand-new Cadillac as a gift, he worries about what the tax authorities will do and pushes the keys back. He doesn't even have the confidence to bring Frank's mother back.

Young Frank is a bit panicked.

He tries to comfort his father but finds he has nothing to offer besides money.

In the end, it's the father who ends up comforting him instead.

Young Frank has no idea that just as his father became a thorn in the side of the tax authorities and didn't dare to make a move, he too has attracted the FBI's attention.

Worse yet, his strange behavior in Hollywood has caught the FBI's eye, sending three agents to investigate the hotel. He's about to expose himself—

In the screening room, people unconsciously hold their breath.

Among the three agents sent to Hollywood is Carl Hanratty, the man who will eventually capture young Frank.

So, does young Frank get caught this easily?

But the movie is not even an hour in. If he gets caught so easily, what's left for the movie to show? The trial?

A mix of curiosity, tension, and anticipation keeps the audience glued to the screen.

Then, they are not disappointed.

Not only that, but there's also a surprise. The entire audience witnesses a magic trick—

Just like a disappearing act, young Frank is cornered in a room by Carl, even with a gun pointed at him. But using his wit, calmness, and charisma, he spins Carl around effortlessly, making up a convincing law enforcement identity.

"...Barry Allen, U.S. Secret Service."

Pfft.

Melvin almost bursts out laughing: Barry Allen, The Flash.

Maybe in the distant 1964, The Flash comic wasn't that famous; but in 2002, superhero comics had a growing number of readers.

Also, The Flash is a DC character, while Anson's Spider-Man is a Marvel character.

The intertextuality inside and outside the movie creates a brilliant contrast.

Melvin isn't the only one; there are muffled, low chuckles spreading through the screening room.

In the end, young Frank walks away unscathed.

In the first showdown between "Young Frank vs. Carl," young Frank, the super conman, scores a perfect victory, making Carl look like a rookie.

Suddenly, the movie becomes interesting—

To be precise, the movie was already very interesting, but now it's even more intriguing and captivating.

On one side, the FBI higher-ups think Carl's description of the suspect is too vague, and so far, there's no criminal record to be found. Continuing the investigation is like finding a needle in a haystack. Although they don't stop Carl, they worry he's setting himself up for failure.

This only fuels Carl's pride.

On the other side, young Frank sets his sights on pilot pension checks, trying to repeat his trick by interviewing retired pilots to perfect his plan, only to find out that he's become front-page news. His crimes have garnered too much attention.

"...They're calling him the 'Sky James Bond.'"

This gives young Frank an idea.

He realizes he can't continue taking high-risk actions; he needs to stay away from the aviation field for a while. He needs to forge a new identity.

Maybe James Bond?

While young Frank watches a 007 movie in a theater to brush up on his spy knowledge, low chuckles ripple through the audience at the Chinese Theatre.

So, is this some of Steven Spielberg's dark humor?

Compared to young Frank's glamorous spy life, Carl's life seems particularly miserable—a sad little office worker even on Christmas Eve.

But Carl never expected young Frank to call him.

"Young Frank vs. Carl 2.0" came sooner than expected.

*Chapter 674: All Alone*

Night had deepened, and all was quiet.

In the vast FBI office, Carl Hanratty was the only one left, all alone.

However, Carl seemed entirely unaware of this; or perhaps, he was aware but simply didn't care.

He was comparing the fingerprints of the suspect, "Barry Allen," trying to uncover the criminal's true identity—

In the 1960s, still the pre-computer era, there was no database to search with a single keystroke; everything had to be done manually. Using a magnifying glass, matching fingerprint by fingerprint. If there were ten thousand fingerprints, you'd have to compare all ten thousand.

Pure physical labor.

So, Carl was working overtime.

Ring, ring, ring.

The phone rang sharply, but Carl continued to scrutinize the fingerprints with a magnifying glass, awkwardly positioning the phone receiver between his ear and shoulder.

"This is Carl Hanratty, Merry Christmas."

"Hey, Carl."

One greeting made Carl sit up straight, his eyes wide open.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end, not hearing a response, thought there was a bad connection.

Carl snapped awake, quickly turning off the radio, "Barry Allen, Secret Service."

The voice on the phone sounded distant and weary, gently rippling in the cold, damp night, "I've been trying to find you for the past few hours."

Wait a minute, Carl was looking for him, and he was also looking for Carl?

Carl asked, "What do you want?"

Young Frank said, "I wanted to apologize for what happened in Los Angeles."

One shot, Steven Spielberg used just one shot to complete the narrative—

In the previous second, the close-up shot of Carl slowly pulled away and rose, finally capturing the scene from above.

The next second, the shot cut to the hotel room where young Frank was, similarly framed from above, their figures overlapping.

A desk lamp, a chair, both all alone, both isolated in their loneliness.

On Christmas Eve, the two of them were both alone.

A quiet and melancholic atmosphere slowly spread, forming a clever intertextuality that was simpler and more direct than any dialogue or explanation.

Two strangers unknowingly formed a connection.

"Haha. Haha." Carl chuckled dryly, "You don't need to apologize."

"Are you working on Christmas Eve too, Carl?" Young Frank sounded lost and confused, his voice sinking into the dim light.

"I volunteered. So those with families can go home early."

"You were wearing a wedding ring once. I thought you had a family."

"No. No family." The desk lamp's light fell hazily on Carl's face, and a resolute look flickered in his eyes as he took the initiative, "You want to talk to me, let's talk face to face."

"Sure." Young Frank responded without hesitation, even a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, giving a straightforward answer without playing any tricks.

"I'm at Stevenson Arms, room 3113. In the morning, I'm heading to Las Vegas for the weekend."

Carl was on full alert, immediately grabbing a pen to jot down key information on a sticky note: Room 3113, "S..."

Wait a minute, Stevenson?

This place is in Brooklyn, New York, and Stevenson Arms is a hotel.

Carl's pen stopped, "Are you trying to trick me again? You're not going to Las Vegas, and you're not at Stevenson Arms."

"You want me to send twenty agents to break down your hotel room door on Christmas Eve, just so you can make us look like fools?"

This time, young Frank didn't immediately respond. Holding the receiver, he stared silently ahead, his eyes losing focus bit by bit.

Just a fleeting moment.

However, he closed his eyes, "If I tricked you, I'm sorry. Sincerely."

Carl wasn't buying it, "No, no need."

"Listen, I mean it."

"No, you don't need to apologize. In fact, I know it's you. Maybe I didn't slap the handcuffs on you, but I know it's you." This was Carl's stubbornness and pride, his persistence.

Young Frank detected the bitterness in his words. He murmured with a face full of desolation, indifferent and casual, "People only know what you tell them, Carl."

Carl didn't notice, or maybe he did but was on high alert, avoiding being tricked by young Frank again, refusing to believe him so easily, "Then tell me, Barry Allen of the Secret Service, how did you know I wouldn't check your wallet?"

In Hollywood, Carl had once asked young Frank for identification. Young Frank had thrown his entire wallet to him and distracted Carl, walking a tightrope, narrowly convincing Carl and escaping the crisis.

Young Frank gave an unexpected answer, "Same reason the New York Yankees always win; no one can take their eyes off the pinstripes."

Carl frowned, "The Yankees win because they have Mickey Mantle. No one ever bets because of their uniforms."

"Are you sure, Carl?"

"I'll tell you what I can be sure of: you will be caught. One way or another, it's just a matter of numbers, like in Las Vegas, the house always wins."

Young Frank didn't speak, gripping the receiver, quietly watching ahead, the shadow of his dense eyelashes casting over his eyes, enveloping them in a mist—

No fear, no panic, no tension; only endless solitude and loneliness.

His usually neat hair hung slightly disheveled, the faint light not clearly illuminating his eyes. That face, too handsome to look at directly, seemed like a fragile, icy Greek statue.

The camera held power.

A close-up shot, an upward angle, gradually sketching the contours of that face in the silent, dim light, all finally focusing sparsely on those downcast eyes.

Just like that, it took your breath away.

In that brief moment, the entire theater could genuinely and profoundly feel that emotion, a bitterness that welled up on the tip of the tongue.

Then.

Young Frank spoke, trying hard to stay calm but still slightly low, "Carl, sorry, I have to end this call."

"Heh," Carl chuckled, "You didn't call to apologize, did you? Ha, hahaha."

Young Frank was caught by Carl's laughter, "What do you mean?"

Carl finally relaxed, "You... you have no one else to talk to. Hahaha."

Bang.

Young Frank suddenly hung up.

Carl was startled but wasn't deterred from his good mood. Still chuckling, he turned the radio back on and even started humming a Christmas carol.

In the dim light, young Frank, still in shock, stared ahead, his scattered focus coming together again as he regained his senses and clarity—

Quickly gathering himself, he opened the door and left the room swiftly.

Bang!

The door opened and closed, leaving the camera focused on the room number.

3113.

Melvin stared wide-eyed, unable to believe what he saw, but Steven Spielberg's camera lingered intentionally on the close-up for a few seconds to ensure everyone could clearly see the number after rubbing their eyes.

This, this means...

Did young Frank just tell the truth about his location?

No way.

Chapter 675: Interwoven Thoughts

Room 3113.

A single shot stirred up a tempest.

Melvin, like Carl, believed Little Frank was full of lies. He even admired Carl for staying clear-headed and finally seeing through Little Frank’s deceit. The hotel and the room were all fabrications, just another game.

However, they weren't.

This meant that Little Frank had just told the truth. If Carl sent someone to Stevenson Arms, they could corner Little Frank.

Huh.

Suddenly, Melvin felt his breath cut off—

Loneliness.

An intense loneliness. Unconsciously, Melvin's mind replayed the look in Little Frank's eyes from the shadow—a heart-wrenching bewilderment and loss.

At this moment, Steven Spielberg uncharacteristically didn't switch the camera angle or edit the scene. He just focused on "3113," but thoughts in the screening room intermingled and collided:

Carl's mockery and taunting, Little Frank's embarrassment and vulnerability, all surged forth.

But why?

Like the audience and Carl's suspicion, Little Frank, who had always lived in lies, seemed trapped in his own lies, unable to land no matter how hard he tried, unable to feel reality. He hid himself layer by layer, and the more Christmas-like the atmosphere, the deeper it cut—

His reality could no longer be shared with anyone, not even his father.

So, the only person who could glimpse Little Frank's truth was an FBI agent.

Does this mean that in that moment, when Little Frank gave the real address, he genuinely entertained the thought of getting arrested?

Was it Carl's mockery that woke him up?

There was a gentle rustling of movement in the screening room, but it quickly subsided. Everyone had their own thoughts brewing a storm, quietly sinking into their reflections. All the restlessness and noise were swallowed, and the air fell silent again.

Carl didn't know he had missed the chance to capture Little Frank, but at least he had inadvertently cracked the truth behind "Barry Allen."

Even when heading to the restaurant for breakfast, Carl was still at work. He listed everyone named "Barry Allen" in New York, preparing to investigate them one by one. Unexpectedly, the restaurant waiter refilling his coffee took an interest in the list.

"Are you a collector?"

Carl: ???

Clearly, Carl had no idea what the waiter was talking about. But he had patience. After some discussion, the answer that was within reach finally came to light.

"Listen!"

"He reads comics. Comic books!"

"Barry Allen is The Flash."

"He's a kid. Our target is a kid, which is why we never found matching fingerprints—he has no criminal record."

"Now, I need you to contact the NYPD and look into all the runaway kids."

"Also, don't forget the airport. He's scattering checks everywhere."

Finally!

Carl finally found a breakthrough—

All along, they believed Little Frank was a young man between twenty-seven and thirty years old. But now, it seemed they had been completely fooled, even about his appearance and age. They had made mistakes right from the start of their investigation.

No wonder they never found this suspect.

Leaving the restaurant, the first thing Carl did was use a public phone booth to call the FBI headquarters, ordering the agents to adjust the keywords for a comprehensive search.

Time was of the essence!

But why New York?

"Because of the Yankees."

"He mentioned the Yankees."

Connecting all the clues, Carl applied his skills as an FBI agent, starting from the details, and finally found a breakthrough.

Sure enough, Carl was correct.

Carl successfully found Paula Abagnale.

To be precise, it was Paula Barnes, the remarried Paula Barnes, living in the suburbs and leading a middle-class life again.

Clearly, Paula already knew from the police that Little Frank was using the checkbook from Chase Manhattan Bank to issue bad checks. But she didn't think it was a big deal. Leisurely, she lit a cigarette, trying to defend her son in front of the FBI agent.

"It's only a thousand dollars."

"Kids his age, half of them are on powder, throwing rocks at cops. They scare me to death, just because my son made a small mistake."

"A seventeen-year-old kid needs to eat, needs a place to sleep…"

Just like at the school before, when she learned that Little Frank pretended to be a substitute teacher, Paula gave her son a reproachful look but didn't really discipline him.

Now, it's the same. Paula even found a bunch of excuses to exonerate her son.

Only when Carl identified Little Frank Abagnale through a photo in the yearbook, confirming it was the figure he saw in Hollywood, did the atmosphere suddenly become tense, even startling Paula.

"Is Frank okay? Is he in trouble?" Paula hurriedly followed Carl and the FBI agents as they stormed out, anxiously asking.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I have to tell you, your son is forging checks."

"Forging checks? Wait! I'm sure we can pay it back." Paula quickly turned around, rummaging through her bag to find her wallet, giving a polite smile. "I work part-time at the church. Just tell me how much he owes, and I'll pay you."

Carl's expression remained calm. "So far, it's $1.3 million."

Paula was stunned, completely losing her ability to respond. She watched Carl leave as the door slowly closed, her face falling into shadow.

And where was Little Frank?

Georgia, Atlanta.

Little Frank lived in a villa and was hosting a grand party. Boys and girls were reveling, even in the cold winter. The whole house felt like the height of summer.

But clearly, Little Frank wasn't into the party. Though the house was full of people, he only found it noisy.

It wasn't until a friend had an accident and the party had to end that Little Frank had to go to the hospital to visit.

In the hospital, Little Frank saw a nurse, Brenda, being scolded by a doctor to the point of tears.

Once again, Little Frank used his charm, gently comforting Brenda, asking her to help check on his friend's condition.

Changing his outfit and style, Little Frank showed a charm completely different from that of a pilot. The suave playboy image was striking, exuding a kind of casual and lazy freedom, making him even more seductive and charismatic. When Little Frank looked at Brenda, he was actually looking directly at the audience in the screening room.

Those deep blue eyes filled with smiles made the women in the screening room's hearts race, holding their breath, twisting into knots in their seats.

If this was Steven Spielberg's goal, clearly, he succeeded—

Who would have thought that a crime film, a biographical movie, would turn into a fashion film, showcasing Anson Wood's charm to the fullest?

Now, Melvin finally understood why Edgar hired him. A surge of excitement and enthusiasm quietly brewed in his abdomen, turning into a storm in an instant.