THE SHYSTER’S SUIT
by Benjamin Gavarre
A Great Depression Farce based on Master Pathelin Adapted
THE SHYSTER’S SUIT © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
PROLOGUE:
The Windy City Hustle
(The theater is pitch black. We hear the harsh, crackling static of an antique Zenith radio tuning through stations: a snippet of FDR’s fireside chat, a wailing jazz saxophone, and a distant police siren. Suddenly, a single, sharp spotlight hits center stage. An ANNOUNCER stands behind a vintage chrome standing microphone, wearing a trench coat and a tipped fedora. He speaks with the fast, punchy, carnival-barker rhythm of a 1930s radio broadcaster).
ANNOUNCER: (Tapping the microphone, echoing slightly) Testing, testing... Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters of the breadline, welcome to Chicago, 1933! The Windy City! Where the skyscrapers touch the heavens, but the pockets are as empty as a politician’s promise. The stock market took a swan dive off the Board of Trade building four years ago, and we’ve been eating boiled shoe leather ever since!
(He leans into the mic, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper).
But let me tell you a little secret about the Great Depression, folks. When the banks dry up and the greenbacks disappear, a new kind of currency takes over the streets. It ain't gold, and it ain't silver. It’s the gift of the gab. The razzle-dazzle. The fine art of the hustle! While honest men are out there digging ditches for a dime, the alley cats of South Side Chicago are surviving on pure, unadulterated brass.
(He unclips the microphone from the stand, walks right up to the edge of the stage, and peers directly into the front rows, pointing an accusing finger).
Speaking of brass... look at the fine threads on this crowd tonight! You there, sir. Yes, you in the third row. That’s a mighty sharp-looking jacket you’ve got on. English wool, isn't it? Very classy. Keep it buttoned tight, pal. And the lady next to him, keep a hand on your pearls! Because where we're going, a coat like that could pay rent for six months!
(He walks back to the center, raising his voice back to a theatrical boom).
Tonight, we take you away from the glitz of the Gold Coast and drop you right into the smog-choked gutters of Skid Row. Meet Mr. Silky McGee. He’s got no money, no morals, and no soles on his shoes... but he’s got a silver tongue that could talk a starving bulldog off a meat wagon. So, tuck away your valuables, hold onto your hats, and whatever you do, don't trust a single word anyone says. The hustle is on!
(The radio static blares loudly, blending into the screech of the El Train. The spotlight snaps off. A chaotic jazz trumpet kicks in as the curtain rises on ACT ONE).
ACT ONE: The High Society of Skid Row
(Interior of a cramped, depressing tenement apartment in South Side Chicago, 1933. Through the cracked windowpane, we hear the screech of the El Train, distant police sirens, and a jazz trumpet playing a depressing tune. Next door, a neon sign flashes through the smog: "DR. SMITH - SECRET DISEASES CURED IN DISCRETION." BIG MARTHA is stoically darning a sock using a dead lightbulb as a mold. SILKY McGEE, skeletal but standing tall like a statue, is adjusting a frayed necktie in front of a shattered mirror. His suit jacket elbows are so shiny they reflect the light).
MARTHA: (Tugging the thread violently, breaking the fourth wall with a sigh to the audience) Look at him, ladies and gentlemen! The great Mr. Silky McGee. He calls himself a financial shark, a big-shot speculator, but the elbows on his jacket are shinier than a Chrysler bumper! Who are you going to sell a yacht to with that hobo look? A Hooverville refugee?
SILKY: (Striking a classic pose, combing his mustache with spit) My Queen of the Soup Kitchen, elegance is in the blood, not the fabric! Class is class. Today, I have a high-stakes meeting with a steel magnate. I’m going to broker a deal for a luxury yacht anchored in Miami. A massive commission, Martha! Tonight, we eat steak!
MARTHA: Steak? You haven’t seen steak since Hoover was in diapers! No tycoon is coming down to this block. It smells like cheap cabbage and industrial smog. The only place you broker deals is at the burlesque theater on State Street! Watching the chorus girls shake their feathers! What do they have that your own old lady doesn’t have right here on this mattress, huh?
SILKY: (Nervous, looking at the audience, carny-style) Slander! Pure jealousy from the neighbors! I only enter that theater because the darkness and the smell of roasted peanuts are perfect for closing underground real estate deals. Besides, modern avant-garde burlesque requires an intellectual mind. (Back to her, smooth) But enough jealousy, Martha! Today I will dress like the tycoon destiny wants me to be. I am going down to the sidewalk to secure a pure English wool suit to dazzle the magnate. Without spending a single nickel.
MARTHA: With what money, you old wolf? You don’t even have a dime for a pack of spearmint gum! Wall Street brokers are jumping off the 20th floor of the Board of Trade building just to save on elevator fare, and you think you can get a suit for free? We are on the verge of starvation, Silky! Yesterday I saw our landlord looking at our cat with a knife and fork!
SILKY: (With a sly smile, tapping her nose) With the currency of American ingenuity, my love! When the economy goes down, the scams go up! It’s the cycle of life. You just put the rusty pot on the kerosene stove. Trust Silky’s theatrical talent.
(He exits doing a suave waltz step, but immediately pops his head back in to pick up the sole of his shoe that just fell off. He tucks it in his pocket and exits with absolute dignity, chin up).
ACT TWO: The Hook and the Irish Stew
(A foggy, gray sidewalk on South State Street, Chicago. The sound of distant car horns, sirens, and the rumbling of the El Train above. CASIMIR "GREENBACK"
LUXOR, sporting sharp sideburns, aviator sunglasses, and an open silk shirt showing a fake gold chain, is wrestling with a massive bale of smuggled contraband fabric tied with clothesline ropes. He’s frantically rubbing a piece of bright, neon-green cashmere suit jacket, trying to clean off the soot from the train ride).
CASIMIR: (Wiping his brow) Damn those border patrol agents in Detroit! They tied up my Canadian contraband like a Thanksgiving turkey. But this green cashmere is moving today if my name is Casimir Luxor! The high-society boys in downtown are gonna pay top dollar for this ice!
SILKY: (Approaching with a theatrical, slow-paced stroll, opening his arms as if witnessing a divine apparition) Well, bless my soul! Is that the one and only Casimir Luxor? What a miracle to see the stars align and bring a true visionary down to this smoggy city!
CASIMIR: (Suspicious, quickly hugging his bale of fabric to protect it) Who’s asking, pal? I don’t recall your face on my ledger.
SILKY: (Deeply offended, hand on his chest) How could you forget? I’m Silky McGee! I was your dear old father’s closest confidant—thick as thieves, we were! Lord rest his soul. What a brilliant, forward-thinking businessman the old man was. And look at you! The spitting image of him! The same ears of a golden merchant, the same dashing posture of a Hollywood leading man. And boy... what a gorgeous piece of rag you got there!
CASIMIR: (Puffing out his chest, completely falling for the flattery) This ain't no rag, Mr. McGee. This is premier, top-shelf, smuggled Canadian cashmere. Deodorized and steam-pressed right off the train.
SILKY: (Touching the neon-green fabric with exaggerated, religious reverence) Look at that drape! That texture! This isn’t fabric, Casimir... this is poetry for the fingertips! You see, I happen to be looking for a very specific piece of cloth for my luxury yacht... I mean, for a highly exclusive black-tie gala. How much for this emerald masterpiece?
CASIMIR: Well, seeing as your own clothes look like they’ve been through a meat grinder, I’ll let you have it for a thousand bucks. Cash on the barrelhead, no financing.
SILKY: (Gasping, deeply insulted) A thousand bucks? Casimir, that is an insult to such fine craftsmanship! This is worth pure gold! I’ll give you fifteen hundred... but on one condition. You wouldn’t dare disrespect your father's memory by refusing to come up to my penthouse for a quick bite, would you?
CASIMIR: (Swallowing hard, his stomach grumbling loudly) A bite of what exactly?
SILKY: A thick, piping-hot bowl of Irish Stew! The spicy, extra-greasy kind that my Martha makes! With hand-rolled biscuits, extra potatoes, and a broth so hot it’ll make your knees buckle and your forehead sweat! Right upstairs, fourth floor, just past the neon sign that says "Secret Diseases". You give me the fabric now so my missus can start pinning my waistline, and you come up in ten minutes flat to collect your fifteen hundred bucks and your overflowing bowl of stew. Come on, don't break my heart!
CASIMIR: (Licking his lips, utterly defeated by the sin of gluttony) Gee, pal... a hot Irish stew is something a Christian man just can't refuse in times like these. Take the cut of cloth, Mr. McGee. I’ll be right up to your fourth-floor paradise as soon as I tie up the rest of this bale.
SILKY: (Quickly stuffing the neon-green fabric under his filthy, frayed jacket) We’ll be waiting with open arms, my brother! Get that belly ready!
(Silky darts away at top speed, immediately losing the sole of his shoe again, but coalescing his dignity to run up the stairs).
ACT THREE: The Loop of the Rabid Gangster
(Back inside the cramped tenement apartment. SILKY McGEE bursts through the door, sliding across the floor, sweaty but triumphant. He flourishes the bright neon-green fabric like a matador).
SILKY: Look at this, my queen! Pure Canadian cashmere! Top-shelf, high-society class!
MARTHA: Holy Mother of Mercy! Who did you rob at gunpoint, Silky? And how on earth are we going to pay for a luxury that screams "shoot me, I have money"?
SILKY: It’s already paid for with pure, unfiltered American gab, my love! But the smuggler is coming up right now to collect his cash and eat a bowl of that Irish stew I promised him.
MARTHA: Irish stew?! Silky, there is nothing in that kitchen but half a jar of pickled gherkins and a piece of bread so hard it could knock out a heavyweight boxer! The neighbor downstairs tried to boil his own leather boots yesterday and nearly choked to death!
SILKY: Relax, woman, and follow my script to the letter! I am getting into bed. When that merchant knocks, put on your funeral face and tell him I’ve been agonizing for two months. And if he gets stubborn, give him the old neighborhood special: the pinch-and-twist!
(Silky jumps into the mattress with his shoes on, puts a rusty tin bucket on his head like a space helmet, and pulls the blanket up to his nose. Heavy, desperate knocks bang on the door).
MARTHA: (Opening the door just a crack, sobbing like a professional mourner) Shhh! Keep your voice down, for the love of all that is holy!
CASIMIR: (Poking his head in, sniffing the air) Good afternoon, ma'am. I’m here to see Mr. McGee about the cashmere and that hot bowl of stew. My stomach is roaring louder than the El Train.
MARTHA: (Crossing herself three times dramatically) Mr. McGee? Oh, dear Lord! My poor husband has been bedridden for ten weeks, dancing on the edge of the grave. He doesn't even recognize his own saintly mother.
CASIMIR: Ten weeks?! Don't give me that baloney, lady! The guy just took a green suit-length from me ten minutes ago downstairs, right in front of the bootleg whiskey joint!
SILKY: (From the bed, thrashing violently, speaking in a demonic, gravelly voice) The communist Martians from New York are chasing me! Turn off the lights at the burlesque show, the chorus girls are blinding me! Look out, Buggs Moran is coming with a Tommy gun made of fried chicken! Fire the torpedoes!
CASIMIR: (Terrified, taking a step back) Holy cow! What kind of bug bit this guy?
MARTHA: It’s the Canadian Rabies, mister! A devastating virus from across the border! The clinic doctor says this infection will probably stay in the air until the year 2020! It's highly contagious! It rots the lungs and makes your hair fall out in clumps!
SILKY: (Foaming violently at the mouth, thanks to a piece of Barbasol shaving cream he had hidden) Bllllrgggh! Detroit, Toronto, Montreal! Sell me the space contraband, you Northern reptilian! I'll put cement shoes on you!
CASIMIR: Hey, wait a minute! You can't pull the wool over my eyes! I want my green fabric or my fifteen hundred bucks! (He arremangs his sleeves and tries to approach the bed).
MARTHA: (Leaping on him like a feral cat from the South Side, pinching his arms, his cheeks, and his ribs with surgical precision) Respect the dying, you heartless vulture! You border-patrol cockroach! Take this, and this, and this!
CASIMIR: (Yelping in agony) Ouch! Ow! Hey, lady, take it easy on the shins! Don't pinch the calves! I surrender, I surrender! Keep the lousy green suit, just don't give me the Canadian Rabies!
(Casimir flees in absolute panic, tripping down the tenement stairs. Silky and Martha look at each other, high-five, wrap themselves in the neon-green cashmere, and start dancing a wild jazz tune).
ACT FOUR: Night Court Madness
(Interior of the gloomy, smoky South Side Night Court. A rusty desk fan barely turns, file cabinets are dented, and a crooked portrait of President Roosevelt hangs on the wall. JUDGE "SLEEPY" JALOPY, a fat bureaucrat with thick, coke-bottle glasses, is cleaning his ear with the cap of a fountain pen. CASIMIR storms in, dragging ZIPPY THE NEWSIE by the neck of his shirt. Zippy is chewing gum, completely unfazed, with a vintage radio transistor strapped to his shoulder).
CASIMIR: Justice, Your Honor! I demand the full weight of the law on this little street-rat! I took him off the street, gave him a job pushing my delivery cart, and the little crook has been milk-bleeding my fabric bales to buy illegal mob lottery tickets!
JUDGE JALOPY: (Yawning, without dropping his pen) Alright, alright, pipe down, mister. If the kid is a pickpocket, let him step up to the bench. Look here, sonny, who is your lawyer, or are you going straight to the slammer?
SILKY: (Bursting into the courtroom with a grand, majestic stride, wearing the incredibly oversized and bright neon-green cashmere suit, now crudely pinned together with safety pins) The defense is present, Your Honor! Silky "Slick" McGee, champion of the forgotten and shield of the vulnerable youth!
CASIMIR: (Staring in absolute shock, dropping Zippy. He points a shaking finger at Silky) Holy mother of Macaroni! You! You’re the ghost of the Canadian Rabies! The pervert from the burlesque theater! Your Honor, that sleazy shyster is wearing my premier green cashmere!
SILKY: (Adjusting his lapels with offended dignity) Objection, Your Honor! The plaintiff is breathing too much industrial smog and suffering from chromatic hallucinations. I am here to prove the innocence of this little angel. (He leans down to Zippy and whispers). You know the drill, kid. Play dumb. Just sing the numbers like we practiced, and we go fifty-fifty on whatever you stole from the bales.
JUDGE JALOPY: (Banging the desk with a worn-out rubber stamp) Order in the court! Look here, Mr. Bootlegger, make up your mind. Did you get robbed or not? Sit your behind down and tell me the story of your cart-boy without bringing up ghosts or blinding colors.
CASIMIRO: (Sweating bullets, hyperventilating) Yes, Your Honor! I’ll tell you everything! Look... I trusted this kid, I gave him my cart to move the goods, and it turns out he was stealing my bales! But... look at him, Judge! That green suit is shinier than a neon sign outside a speakeasy! He scammed me with a ghost Irish stew in the high flats of South State Street!
JUDGE JALOPY: A stew? What on earth does a damn stew have to do with smuggled Canadian fabric, mister?
CASIMIR: (Twisting his words frantically, on the verge of a nervous breakdown) Well, because the cart-boy of the stew stole my suit! I mean! The green-cashmere newsie stole my bales of fabric! And the lawyer coughed the Canadian Rabies on me to steal my delivery cart! And the old lady with the hair-rollers pinched my ribs five hundred times because of the contraband clothes!
JUDGE JALOPY: (Rapping his temples, desperate) Sweet Jesus, give me patience, because if you give me strength, I’m gonna kill this man! (To Zippy) Alright, kid! Step up. Stop chewing that gum. Is it true you stole the fabric from this poor lunatic who talks in riddles? Speak up!
ZIPPY: (Putting on a blank, vacant face, cupping his hand over his mouth like a radio announcer, dragging out the vowels) Thirty-four thousand five hundred and eeeeeeighty!
JUDGE JALOPY: (Baffled) What? What fifty and what eighty? I’m asking you about the contraband bales, you little punk!
ZIPPY: (At the top of his lungs) Seven thousand two hundred and twenty-twooooo!
SILKY: (Wiping an invisible tear with feigned compassion) Look at him, Your Honor! A poor child deformed by the cruelty of the concrete jungle! His little brain is completely fried by poverty; he can only process random numbers! Do you honestly believe this innocent creature, this little angel of the radio lottery, has the intellectual capacity to mastermind an international fabric heist?
CASIMIR: Don't play dumb with me! He acts like a simpleton, but he's a professional con artist! And you, take off my suit! Your Honor, the green-cashmere angel stole the Canadian Rabies, and the shyster of the bales promised me fifty thousand dollars worth of stew! I demand my five hundred pinches back!
JUDGE JALOPY: (Slamming both hands on his desk, jumping to his feet, furious) I’ve had it! Enough of this madness! One is talking about rabid green parakeets, the other thinks he’s a radio game show, and the lawyer looks like a broken traffic light! You are insulting this court! Either the three of you get checked into an insane asylum, or I’m throwing you all in jail for contempt of court and disturbing the peace!
CASIMIR: But my cashmere, Your Honor...!
JUDGE JALOPY: (Waving his arms wildly) Out of my courtroom! Case dismissed due to collective insanity! Get out, get out, go blow it out your ears!
(The Judge runs out through the back door in a panic. Casimir, tearing his hair out in sheer frustration and sobbing for his lost fabric, runs out into the street. Silky smiles triumphantly, adjusts his tie, and winks at the audience).
ACT FIVE: The Great Sidewalk Chase (Grand Finale)
(Outside the Night Court, on the foggy, neon-lit sidewalk of South State Street. Silky McGee is admiring himself in a puddle of water, proudly adjusting his oversized, safety-pinned green suit. Zippy the Newsie tries to sneak away on tiptoes, turning down the volume of his transistor radio).
SILKY: (Grabbing Zippy by the collar of his shirt, lifting him slightly off the ground) Not so fast, you little alley-rat! Where’s the fire? The trial was a masterpiece, a total success. The smuggler ran away crying, and the judge washed his hands of the whole mess. Now, let’s get down to business. I saved your hide from the slammer. Pay me my legal fees! Cough up your share from those fabric bales.
ZIPPY: (Slipping out of his jacket like an eel, stepping back with his hand on his chin, looking at the sky) Two hundred and fifty thousand dollaaaaars!
SILKY: (Laughing, rubbing his hands together) Come on, kid, quit the radio act and drop the greenbacks. The judge isn’t here to watch your little theater show anymore.
ZIPPY: (Adjusting his radio shoulder strap, flashing a wicked, street-smart grin) Fifty thousand dollaaaaars!
SILKY: (His smile vanishes, turning furious) Hey! Listen to me, you pint-sized pickpocket, you don’t play my own scams on me! Cough up the dough or I’ll beat you like a rugs on a clothesline right here on the sidewalk! I’ll call Frank Nitti and Bugs Moran to turn you into Swiss cheese!
ZIPPY: (Taking a massive leap backward, getting a head start, and screaming at the top of his lungs with absolute victory) JAaaaaCKPOOOOOOT!!
(Zippy bolts down the street like a human streak of lightning. Silky lets out a horrified shriek as the sole of his shoe flies off once again. He begins hopping on one foot and sprinting after the kid).
SILKY: (Screaming into the distance as the stage lights begin to flicker) Stop that kid! Police! Help! That little thief is running away with my retirement fund! Martha! Get the broomstick!
(Suddenly, Big Martha "The Mallet" charges out from around the corner, wearing her stained apron and hair-rollers, swinging a heavy wooden broomstick like a baseball bat).
MARTHA: (Screaming at Silky) Vudulago—I mean, Silky! You spent all night playing lawyer and you didn't leave a single nickel for the grocery store! Come back here, you old wolf! (She joins the chase, swinging the broomstick at Silky's rear end).
(From the opposite side of the stage, Casimir Luxor re-enters, dragging a fat, out-of-breath Chicago Police Officer who is blowing a shiny brass whistle).
CASIMIR: There they are, officer! That’s the guy in the neon-green Canadian Rabies suit! And that's the psycho lady with the broomstick! Collar them all!
(A fast-paced, frantic Charleston jazz tune kicks in at double speed. The entire cast begins running in a ridiculous, circular slapstick line around the stage: Zippy cupping his hand shouting lottery numbers, Silky hopping on one sock trying to hold up his pinning-falling trousers, Martha swinging the broomstick, Casimir crying over his textiles, and the fat cop tripping over his own nightstick).
SILKY: (Stopping for a brief second right in front of the fourth wall, adjusting his frayed tie and winking at the audience) Well, folks... that's life on Skid Row! As my dear old uncle used to say... in a depression, the honest man starves, but a shyster with a green suit always goes out with a bang! See you at the next raffle, Chicago!
(Silky trips over his own loose shoe sole, crashing face-first onto the pavement. Casimir trips over him, Martha flies through the air landing on top of them, and the fat cop falls like a sack of bricks over the whole pile. A massive human mountain of limbs and fabric forms on stage, from which the bright neon-green jacket, the rusty tin bucket, and Zippy's radio transistor fly out. The radio hits the floor and keeps blaring in a loop: "Jackpot!... Jackpot!... Jackpot!...").
CURTAIN FALLS WITH A LOUD, COMIC THUD
THE END OF THE FARSA
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THE SHYSTER’S SUIT © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
