Crooked

by Bronwen John

  Copyright © 2020 Bronwen John

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1800468 450

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Dedicated to:

  Matthew Purdue, for helping me with the poker aspect and reminding me that writing is cathartic.

  Eleanor James, for reminding me of the simple pleasure writing can bring.

  My mother, Jennifer, Karen, Carol and Andrea, who kept me sane and on the straight and narrow.

  Graham, Michael and David, who encouraged mischief and the art of subterfuge.

  My father, Peter W. W. John, who gave me the invaluable motto: “You can do what you like with the law; bend it, twist it, hide behind it… just don’t break it.”

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Con Jargon / Terminology

  The First

  Art Gallery Scam

  in London

  One

  “Hey, fancy supporting a truly great artist?”

  “Get lost.”

  “Aw, come on, this is my summer job and I’m working on commission – what’s the big deal and rush?”

  “Ash, it’s me, Max. Remember, Max ‘Colorado’ Ying? You’ve been pulling the long-short con all week here.”

  Ashia ‘Ash’ Cox grinned at that. She sat back down on the steps of Trafalgar Square, watching as Colorado made his way towards some tourists. He probably had a scam of his own lined up for them. It showed business was poor in London, that she hadn’t recognised a fellow con artist, let alone a good friend. It made it worse that she’d probably be the butt of some teasing when she went out tonight.

  Ash grunted at that thought as a buzz in her pocket alerted her to a notification. She allowed an annoyed groan to slip out at the interruption and, half-expecting it to be some sort of push alert from her social media account, pulled it out and scrutinised it. Much to her disappointment, it was a text from one of her crew, namely Dee, asking if there had been any marks so far on their first foray into the art of the long con. According to Dee, this exercise hadn’t even been worth it in the long run as they’d barely broke even before their last day today.

  Ash knew that Dee didn’t like the scheme; she didn’t have the patience for it. She preferred the short cons, like the pigeon drop or the wine drop. But now she came to think of it, there was something in the mind of her mentor, Luke Gaines, she was sure of it. The con man was up to no good, but had not revealed his cards yet.

  But there again, just like the con, it all came down to patience.

  “Con artistry gives a clue in the title,” Luke would say, with that small, patient smile and cool look. “So many different art forms, and patience is the key to it all.”

  Ash had seen it often. That paternal grin. That Trust me, I know what I’m doing smile. Hell, she would buy into that smile just like all the other marks in this world would, and could buy his bull. The bull that he was a vicar raising cash for his church roof, or that he was an investment banker with a deal just too good to be true.

  Ash sat back on her bench, trying to spot a mark that she could use. She sighed, feeling her fingers twitch as she looked at the tourists, imagining she could hear their jangling wallets as they went passing by. She’d first started picking pockets at the tender age of thirteen, after running away from another foster home. She’d been pretty good at it, too – earning nearly £500 in her first three days. She’d been heading back to her hostel, and decided to pick on a camera hugger, as she fondly termed tourists. The guy had been perfect – tall, with greying blond hair and looking lost in his own world. She’d gone to pick his wallet and she’d felt a hand grip her wrist… that’s how she’d met Luke Gaines. The man had somehow conned his way into her heart and through social services and gained custody of her, taken her under his wing. He’d taught her almost everything she knew.

  “You know the National Gallery is full of the bourgeois sense of class that reeks of the patriarchy, and I am afraid that the Tate is going the same way!”

  That got her attention. Hipsters were a God-given gift as far as Ash was concerned. They tried so hard to be different, yet here they were wearing the same styles with phones outstretched in front of them… they all became the same. Easy. Marks.

  “Need some help, Ash?”

  She turned to see Colorado approaching her, and smirked. “What happened to your little con?”

  “Saw one of your hipsters push a kid in the fountain when they were trying to get a shot of Nelson. No need. Plus, I get to say I run the first art gallery scam outside of Beijing… that’ll impress the folks back home.”

  “Colorado, you were born within the sound of Bow Bells… think you can pull it off quick?”

  A nod from him, and Ash noticed the police beginning to circle the neck of the woods he’d been trying to con. Obviously the kitchen had gotten a bit too hot for Colorado’s liking.

  “Got a slider?”

  “Joe Mahoney.”

  Ash nodded, and immediately got to work. She played on all the innocence that her sixteen-year-old face could muster. As the hipsters passed, she waited to make her play.

  “Yeah, mister, I’m telling you, it’s a genuine Paul Eyrie exhibition; y’know, the artist that makes some sort of a social commentary with each piece? He’s big pals with Banksy.”

  Max’s cockney tone was immediately switched out for a more cultured one. “You mean it?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t be standing here otherwise; I’m doing some work for my art gallery…”

  Ash waited impatiently. She was sure the mark had gone, but spotted Colorado making a slight gesture with his fingers, mimicking texting. They were checking online. They weren’t as stupid as she’d thought, and she thanked God that there was no photograph of Paul Eyrie on his Wikipedia page, and that ‘Paul Eyrie’ was an assumed name.

  “But it’s such a small gallery.”

  “Yeah; said he was sick of the pretensions of modern society, or some nonsense.” She sighed, as she believed every Saturday girl or underpaid intern had the right
to do. “So, you interested or not?”

  “Definitely.”

  Another hand gesture from Max, although this time his index finger was moving in a circular motion, mimicking a reel on a fishing line. One more line and they’d hook them.

  “So, the gallery. New?”

  “Brand new, hosts a lot of unknowns.” She sighed. “Reasonable all over, except the wages; can’t wait for my GCSEs to come in.”

  Max snorted. That was genuine. He was about to make another comment when a young man wearing a beanie shoved him out of the way.

  “Move it. You have Paul Eyrie pieces?”

  From the way Max tensed, Ash guessed that this was the young man who had shoved the kid into the fountains. That helped her performance more than a little. “Where’d you get off listening in, mate? I was talking to a—”

  “If you don’t want me to report your foul attitude to your manager, you’ll tell me where the art gallery is.”

  Ash smirked. “You don’t know where. And I don’t care. You can’t afford anything. Bunch of modern-day beatniks, as my grandfather would say.”

  “Looks can be deceptive.” The young man smirked. “Now, I’m willing to pay out; even pay for me and my friends to get in. So are you in or not?”

  Ash took a deep breath and looked heavenward. “Hope my good deed pays off,” she said, as if to herself, then looked at the group of hipsters, who all wore looks of smug satisfaction. She dipped her head in defeat. “Fine. Follow me.”

  They were so smug they didn’t see the smile on her face at the inevitable mathematical conclusion she had drawn in her mind.

  Hook + line = sinker.

  The art gallery was actually an old office building that had been leased from Cyclops, the local fixer. There were plenty of paintings on the wall, or leaning against the wall, looking to be set up.

  Dee showed the group around, as Ash leant against the wall, ostensibly watching, informing them about the lesser-known artists also on display. She was, at least, not lying about that, although the names had been changed. Gaines had bought them in bulk from the local art class, for the total amount of £90. He’d promised to make a further donation if the con had gone well. After all, Vilde, the art teacher, had been more than fair in her pricing, and it was an unwritten law of ‘honest’ con work that you couldn’t cheat an honest person. The ones who ignored that fundamental rule normally ended up inside. Let alone, it just invited bad luck.

  “This piece was painted by Paul Eyrie; it sums up the chaos of the social media age,” Dee was saying. How anybody could say that about a painting of a dog dancing on the spot while a kid filmed it was beyond Ash. Colorado was looking appreciative and nodding, just like the rest of them. “This is one of the artist’s lesser favourite works, so we’re selling it for £1,000.”

  Again there came the head-nodding. The young man who was standing next to Colorado and had earned his vehement dislike was smiling. No, that was the wrong description, Ash decided. It was a baring of teeth like a predator who had prey in their sights.

  “I know that kid’s face,” whispered a voice from beside her.

  Ash jumped and slapped the shoulder of the older man who’d appeared apparently from nowhere.

  “Sorry, kiddo, didn’t mean to startle you none… was getting some papers for you.”

  “Newspapers? Hell, Luke, I can read my news online,” Ash scoffed. She soon felt a light bump to the head. “Hey!”

  “I meant a passport, nimrod.”

  “Passport? What’re you up to?”

  “Tell you later… how’s it going?”

  “Got some good marks from the looks of things. Col says he’ll buy a piece too… thinks his grandma might like it for Christmas.” Ash smiled and returned to admiring the action. “It’s been fun using the big store.”

  A small smile, a genuine one, crossed his features. “Yeah, kid. It sure has.”

  There was something about that look and the tone of his voice which made it feel like a lingering farewell. Ash was about to push further when she spotted Dee approaching.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The boy wants to buy one piece for each of his friends, and there are eight of them! All from Eyrie’s collection. You were fantastic as the roper, Ashy.” Dee was the only one permitted to call her that. “Well done.”

  Ash grinned, and was about to thank her when she spotted the expression on Gaines’s face as he took in the scene. He was preparing to cut and run. “Oh, come on, perhaps his maiden aunt croaked.”

  “And perhaps he’s somebody we don’t want to be meeting in a dark alley, or the son of somebody… I know the face, Ash.”

  “Perhaps he’s been on the telly? I saw that guy from Game of Thrones come in yesterday, but we didn’t take any payment. I was glad; I felt guilty about how his character ended up,” Ash said. “We can even say that Eyrie’s lawyers got us closed down because of us doing this deal… please? I mean, that’s a cut of £2,000 each!”

  “£1,500 for me; I’m taking my cut smaller for the art class.” Gaines flashed a tense smile. “Fine. Dee, sell Max his painting for £20. I’ll deal with the rest personally; that way, if it goes wrong they’ve only got a real good description of me.”

  Excited nods abounded.

  “Where shall we meet up afterwards?” asked Dee.

  “Usual spot in the West End; classier joint, now a con’s not over until it’s over. I’ll use this cut to cover costs… Dee.”

  Dee was already in the office, taking the money out of the safe and sharing it between everyone. Dee winked as she handed over the money to Ash, who leafed through it reverently. £2,000 in readies already felt good in the back pocket. She smiled to herself.

  “You have any intentions with that?” teased Colorado as Ash tucked her share into her pocket. “Or is it top secret?”

  “Top secret from you, Colorado,” scoffed Ash, smiling at them all. “I’ll see you later.”

  Two

  James Redford saw her coming down the estate. He chuckled, blowing out a puff of smoke. There was no mistaking that person who walked with such an air of confidence.

  Ashia Cox always cut a figure walking through the Underbrush Estate, with a certain determination in her step and her dark brown curls drawn into a chignon on top of her head. He waved to her; the way she was walking meant that she had the money for some goods that she had used as collateral for the long con that her and her crew had gone in for. He didn’t offer a smile, although he truly liked Ash, mainly because she was good with the kids around the estate and, from what he could see, a very honest individual.

  Unusually honest, in fact, especially given that her weekend job was being a slider and sometime pupil of the notorious con artist Luke Gaines.

  Ash returned the greeting and walked into the shop ahead of him, wafting the smoke from his vape away from her face. “Christ, Jamie, you smoke like a chimney – don’t you know the damage they do you?”

  “If I wanted a lecture, I’d go to her indoors,” he replied, with a stiff frown. “What goes on?”

  “I’ve come in to collect,” she said, with an excited smile that showed her true age. “My sovereign necklace – the job went well, Mr Redford.” That showed she was settling down; the use of the respectful tone. “An—”

  “Your sovereign necklace is safe here,” Redford said, handing the old leather box to her. “With my small amount of interest, let’s see, that will be the grand total of £1,025.”

  Ash didn’t protest as she counted out the wad of notes, a combination of tens and fifties. She was only sixteen, after all was said and done; James Redford had taken her money illegally and, despite a fairly meagre amount being given, it had paved the way for this job. “Think that’s enough, Mr Redford – just make sure.” She noted Redford smiling and raising his eyebrows at her. “I’m not conning you, just want to
make sure my maths is correct.”

  The man snorted and counted out his money on the table. “All here, Ash. Don’t need to worry your sweet self. Even have some change.”

  “Thanks.” She put her necklace on, but tucked the box that had held it into her inside jacket pocket, throwing in the rest of her funds. “You’re a scholar and a gentleman?” She paused as she began to count out the change, fingers stilling as she studied it. “Hey, James, not very good at counting either.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and you’re a scholar and a lady… we’re all scholars and of good breeding… so how come there are so many idiots and reprobates in the world?” he asked, chuckling to himself.

  “If I had the answer to that, I’d give you a share of the millions I’d make,” she said, sliding the notes over to him. “But seeing as you’re a bit flush right now, I’ll leave the overcharged change behind! See you, Jamie Redford.”

  Redford watched with a small smile as she walked off down the street. She was something, that Ash. She needed a guiding hand in the line of grifting or she was sure to run into a whole lot of trouble later on in life. Or she’d have a very short life.

  He was glad that Ash hadn’t noticed his little con. It was an old trick, but nonetheless a good one – to overpay an odd bit of change. Not very much for any respectable con artist, whether they be rookie or otherwise, to notice, but it was just enough for him to sense out a liar and a cheat.

  He’d tried the same sort of trick with Colorado the previous week. The little git had walked out with an excess of £30 – which he’d rather rapidly given back when chased down. The boy hadn’t even had the guile to lie about it, and instead suggested that James was at fault.

  James would have to make a call to Luke Gaines with this bit of information, to advise that he’d done well by at least teaching her honesty amongst thieves in this all-too-dishonest line of work.