I’ve met many conmen in my life, mainly because they used to hang out on the French Riviera hoping to land a “big one,” as rich suckers were called back then. I was there for the tennis and the good life and the women; it was normal to meet charming people focused on relieving the rich of their extra cash. There were no credit cards back then, except for those who had credit in hotels and casinos, but never, of course, with ladies of the night. Cash for the latter was king, and apparently still is, or so I’m told nowadays.

The hustlers I met were good conversationalists, not to mention good sportsmen—indispensable traits in their chosen profession. There was Nicky Sargeant, the Prometheus of backgammon, a man— born somewhere between Romania and Moldova—who had crossed the Atlantic first-class more times than the captain of the Queen Mary, entrapping his victims over seven straight days and nights of gambling. Then there was Tim Holland, a backgammon and golf hustler with a scratch handicap but who played under a 14. He looked like his friend Sean Connery and demanded payment the moment he won, just like James Bond. And the Frenchman Jean-Noël Grinda, a top backgammon, gin rummy, and tennis player whose nickname was Uriah Heep, for his ability to flatter and grovel in front of his prospective victims.

I could go on with renowned names, but space forbids it. Like all good things, these classy conmen have mostly died or retired, replaced by nerdy-looking unhygienic horrors with unkempt hair and scraggly beards, who dress in t-shirts and cargo shorts. This new breed would not have lasted one hour in the good old days, especially on the Riviera, where they would most likely have been jailed as vagrants.

The greatest conmen are the hardest to detect. I met the arch-conman Mortimer Sackler, an American with a strong Noo Yawk accent, long ago. He approached me on a tennis court immediately following a match I had managed to lose despite leading throughout, until the end.

“You need to take a pill that will keep you calm,” Sackler told me. “It really works. Tell me if you want one.” I told him no thanks and asked what he was—some kind of travelling salesman?

Well, he was a salesman, of the snake oil variety, and his OxyContin opioid pills killed 500,000 Americans. At the time he approached me, he was just starting out.

He ended up a multi-billionaire and carved his name on the walls of museums the world over. He owned grand houses in London, New York, Gstaad and in Cap d’Antibes. He was my neighbor in both Gstaad and New York, and in the 40 years that I knew him, he was always kind and avuncular. The last thing I would have suspected was that he, along with his brothers, was a cold-blooded merchant of death.

Anti-capitalists will tell you it was always this way. I beg to differ. The robber barons of the 19^th century gave us railroads, steel mills, and ocean liners. Their 21^st-century equivalents gave us Facebook and Twitter, probably the two worst inventions ever. I only hope that Elon Musk can somehow improve the product, but it will be harder to do than conquering space.

Which brings me to Bernie Madoff’s professional heir, Sam Bankman-Fried, or better yet, Bankman-Fraud. Bernie, at least, conned the rich—one needed a minimum of $2 million to invest in his Ponzi scheme (trust me, I should know)—whereas Bankman-Fraud’s scheme ruined people who had barely a thousand dollars in their bank accounts. Bankman-Fraud used customers’ money for his own purposes and became a star in Democratic Party circles for his munificence. Even after he was discovered, the egregious New York Times invited him to address its DealBook conference in Manhattan via satellite. Bernie was never offered an invitation, but then Bernie had only given $200,000 to the Democratic Party, not $70 million, like Bankman-Fraud.

The Democrats and their media chorus were always part of the Bankman-Fraud’s cover. His Ponzi scheme worked as long as he could get that cover to make all the right noises. It is outrageous that this ugly slob was given a platform to defend the indefensible only because he had contributed other people’s money to the Democratic Party. I don’t for a moment doubt that he has millions hidden away in the Bahamas in accounts that the poor schmucks he defrauded cannot reach.

This was a conscious and intentional fraud, yet the perpetrator is walking around on a $250-million bail. His parents are—it should come as no surprise—left-wing professors at Stanford, and have come to his defense, like good parents tend to do.

So I ask you, dear readers, wouldn’t you prefer to have your cash lifted after a pleasant afternoon of backgammon, golf, or tennis on the Riviera than to be duped by a grubby dork like Bankman-Fraud, and then have to endure listening to his denials, courtesy of the obnoxious and mendacious New York Times?