Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “They’re running the same closed system in LA, I’d add a nought to that if you want to be taken seriously.” Glossy pages flapped. “No, if you haven’t received a catalogue I wouldn’t expect an invitation to LA or London sir.”

  Christopher looked at me in the darkness, wet eyes full of excitement.

  “Gotta go, I’ve a customer.”

  I held my breath.

  Pete hung up.

  “Mister … sorry, Mister Laurie?” he said. “You my ten o’clock?”

  “Grayson. Bob Grayson. Call me Bob. Pleased to meet you fellahs. Phee-yew! Gotcha self a stink in here ain’tcha?”

  “Mr Grayson, I’m sorry, it’s by appointment only. Could you show Mr Grayson the way –”

  “Now juss’ hold yur horses fellahs. S’okay, ah’m a fellow collector. Perhaps you heard o’ my museum in Kansas? Here ya go, my card.”

  “That’s very nice Mr Grayson but I’m afraid –”

  “Bob. Call me Bob. Over for a few days. Juss’ agreed to buy a pretty piece on eBay. Right up yur street. Meant to be meetin’ your Laurie fellah here for the exchange. Said he’s runnin’ a li’l late.”

  “Look sir, there are strict instructions regarding pre-bid viewings for this auction. Mr Laurie had no business arranging –”

  “Auctions auctions eh? Everywhere ah’m goin’ that’s all ah’m hearin’. Howzabout ah give you first gander at mah new purchase when Laurie shows up, an’ you let me take a peek at whatever’s causin’ all this fuss, huh? Now, what we got up here?”

  “You step back a little please, case is alarm. Thank you.”

  “Now then, now then, what’s awl this? King Jockie of Mississippi? Holy … These wouldn’t be … Jeez, these cotton fellahs what ah think they are boy? Mah gawd …”

  “Sir, I must ask, step away from case.”

  “Whell ah’ never did … That the catalogue yew got there boy? Lemme take a lookie at that.”

  “Mr Grayson –”

  “Shush now. Here we are. Manufactured by King Jockie. Bought from Glenville Tailoring in Cleveland in 1932. Wh’ell ahll be …”

  In the darkness of the kitchen, Christopher winked and turned quietly, moving silently on tiptoeing loafers through the office to the fire escape. Stopping to check his scar in the mirror one last time, he heaved open the door silently. An icy breeze scuttled through, fluttering the office papers inquisitively and he was gone.

  Swallowing hard, I concentrated on the play out front. Grayson seemed to be reading aloud.

  “… still facing rejection from, among others, National Allied Publishing and the United Features Syndicate, artist Joe Shuster feared it was the amateur quality of the artwork that was holding them back. In 1937 –”

  “Mr Grayson –”

  “Ah said a-hush now, this is history here. In 1937 he hired Joanne Carter as a female model and began to rely further on the poses of Jerry for those of his most famous creation. Usin’ a red cotton tablecloth and these men’s briefs, pictured, the very first infamous poses of –

  “Sir, please, alarm is very sensitive …”

  “Easy now boy. Customer’s ahlways right, don’t they teach you that in this country? No one’s touchin’ nuthin. Ahm juss’ tryin’ to get a lookie –”

  The door gave a jangle.

  Christopher.

  Then a voice. Not Christopher’s. Not Christopher’s at all.

  “What’s all this?”

  No. Oh no no no.

  “Well g’mornin’ miss,” Grayson said. Not a line anyone was expecting to hear. Not a line anyone wanted to hear.

  I stood in the dark, grabbing the counter top, knees buckling.

  “Neil about?” Laura said. There was a soft clicking. Heels moving up the shop towards the counter. A shuffle. Men moving. The kick stool being shoved to one side.

  “Laura?” Pete said.

  There was a beat. A silence. The script was slipping. I could feel everyone flipping desperately for the right page, stage-hands panicking, the director gesturing in silent fury.

  “Hey,” Laura said.

  What was she doing? I’d told her we were … What the hell was she doing?

  “Ain’t you gonna introduce us to this lovely young thing?” Grayson said with an oily voice. Even hiding in the kitchen in the dark, I could sense his wet eyes widening. “Bob Grayson. Pleasure, miss. A pleasure.”

  Laura giggled. In the way you might when a randy old bastard kisses your hand.

  “Well, Neil said he was having important viewers this morning,” Laura cooed. “He didn’t tell me how distinguished they’d be. A pleasure to meet you.”

  Oh for Christ’s sake?

  Julio and Pete had gone uncomfortably quiet. Unlike my bottom, which was beginning to register its discomfort at the situation. I looked at my chunky watch. Christopher was due any –

  “Jesus H Christ!” Grayson yelled, the door jangling and clattering. “My … Jesus buddy, you all right?”

  “Ow, ahhh.” It was Christopher’s voice. He sounded in trouble. “Bastards, those damn … ahh, shit.”

  “You okay buddy? Your head looks …”

  “Just a knock I think. Oww, shit.”

  “Siddown, siddown.”

  There was a bang and shuffle of the chair being heaved out to the aisle of the shop. Everyone seemed to be cooing and oo-ing.

  “They took the fuckin’ … ow. You got … you got some water? Any water?”

  “Of course.”

  I braced myself in the dark as hurried footsteps approached. Pete entered the kitchen, pushing past me in angry silence. He ran the tap noisily.

  “What’s happening?” I hissed. “Pete?”

  “Happening? Your girlfriend’s fucking the whole game!” Pete spat. “What’s she doing here?!”

  “I-I swear, I don’t know! I told her …”

  “Get out of the way. Out of sight. Christ, extras cluttering up every corner,” Pete muttered. “You out here, her out there. Julio is right. Goddamn amateur hour, this whole damned play.” He shut the tap off and stared at me. “Go on! Move it. What are you waiting for?!” he hissed.

  Dumbstruck, I backed away in the darkness, through the narrow door of the staff toilet, back of my knees bumping against the cold bowl. Pete tutted and left, pushing back into the glare of the shop clutching a mug of water.

  I breathed out as quietly as I could, heart thumping.

  I could hear voices. Muffled now.

  Teeth tight, I edged back out a few feet towards the doorway, ears aching for sounds.

  “Thank you. Christ. Are any of you Grayson? I’m meant to be meeting a Bob Grayson –”

  “Mr Laurie?”

  “That’s you? God, you’re here. Thanks so much for … look I’m sorry …”

  “What the hell happened boy?”

  “Kids,” Christopher croaked. “Fuckin’ … Daventry train got into Charing Cross late. I was heading over here. Hurrying. Up whassit. Had my case with me. Silver case. Your comic.”

  “Had it?”

  “Got just up here. Soho. These two kids. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen? Yelling. I turn, spinning around. Then whack.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Wait. They got mah comicbook?”

  “Took the whole case. Left me on the pavement. Is it cut? It feels like it’s cut …”

  “You look right. Need cleaning up though. How you feel?”

  “They got mah book?” Grayson said again. “Ah come all this way? Five an a half grand’s worth of comic book, you let ’em just take it from you?”

  “Five and a half grand?” Laura said.

  The room went eerily quiet for a second too long.

  “Ah was meant to be buyin’. eBay. We had a deal,” Grayson said. He wasn’t happy.

  “Shouldn’t someone call the police?” Laura suggested.

  The shop fell quiet again. What was she doing here?

  “I call now,” Julio said, impatience in his voice. “Let them sort
out.” Louder.

  Shit.

  I scuttled quickly back into the tiny toilet. Locking the door, I sat down, knees bouncing. Heart thudding in the dark, I tried to focus, tried to concentrate. Shuffling. Footsteps in the office. Voices were mumbling in the shop.

  Grayson. More mumbling.

  Laura. The scuff of a chair.

  The door jingling. Traffic. The door closing.

  A long silence.

  I listened to my heart beat for a moment, blinking hard.

  Still nothing.

  Then the soft trill of a mobile phone. Rumpty-tumpty-tumpty-tum. Christopher’s low voice.

  “Neil!” Pete yelled. “Get out here.”

  Slowly, I edged out of the dark cubicle, through the office, blinking like a rabbit into the white glare of the strip lights. Christopher was on his mobile. Julio – cap off, tie unclipped, hair miraculously back to its ruffled state – stood, arms folded, on the left of a sheepish-looking Laura. Pete flanked her right.

  “Hey there,” she said with a small apologetic smile.

  “Enough from you,” Julio growled.

  Incongruously for a Monday morning, Laura was back in evening wear. Hair up, long pale neck exposed, soft shoulders peeping from her short black cocktail dress, stockinged legs in red velvet heels. Some of her swagger, however, was noticeably absent.

  Christopher clicked his phone closed, causing everyone to turn his way.

  “Henry’s got him. He’s jinked west onto Regent Street and is heading south. Probably back to the hotel to calm down. Henry will call again when he’s settled.”

  Pete and Julio relaxed a little, rolling their shoulders.

  “Which brings us to you, miss,” Christopher said pointedly, all eyes falling dubiously upon Laura. “You mind telling us quel le fuck you are doing here? This some twist is it? Neil?” and he looked at me. “Getting your girlfriend involved? You trying to get clever on us? Hn?”

  “Wait,” I protested. “I didn’t –”

  “A wrong note. One wrong note, that’s all it takes,” Christopher said. He tugged his handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the fleshy putty and dripping scarlet corn syrup from his forehead, examining the stained cotton once or twice. “Our mark picks up the tiniest sensation, the most minute ruffle that things are not absolutely perfect, he’ll walk. No explanations, no goodbyes. Bang. Back on the plane. And we’re half a million down.”

  “He had nothing to do with this,” Laura said. Her voice cracked a little. “I just stopped by. I wanted … I just wanted to see what you guys were like.”

  “What we like?” Julio snarled. He looked at Christopher contemptuously. “We should walk. There no way he went for it. I got a pony say he’s take his money and he’s back at the airport. Or he calling the cops. Smelling fish. We bloody walk.”

  “Pete?” Christopher asked.

  Pete looked at me, breathing deep. He turned to Christopher.

  “I don’t know. He appeared pretty impressed with the pants.”

  “He bloody walk, I fuck tell you. He out of here.”

  “And on the plus side,” Pete added, “he did seem to like the broad.”

  “This whole thing is fuck,” Julio said. “I out of this, I out of this,” and he shook his head, pushing off towards the office.

  “Julio, wait –”

  “I was just curious,” Laura went on, looking about the group. “Neil said you guys were professionals. Thought it’d be a kick, y’know?”

  “Julio?!” Christopher hollered again.

  “Your kick has probably just cost us five hundred thousand pounds, little lady,” Pete said, “which I myself am in no mood to just to write off.”

  “Look,” I said, voice wobbling a little like a schoolboy’s. “Christopher, look –”

  “I’m thinking,” he said, bottom lip protruding like the prow of a tiny ship. “His fancy did appear taken, that’s true …”

  The shop fell silent.

  “If Grayson walks now,” Pete said, lighting a cigarette with the snap of a Zippo, “he’d miss his opportunity for a date.”

  “Date – ?” Laura yelped.

  “Hmn, indeedy,” Christopher said slowly, his great mind rolling it over. “Julio?” he called again.

  Julio appeared in the office doorway, security guard uniform off, back in combats and boots and a heavy coat, purple Reebok bag on his shoulder, thunder across his face.

  “I go out of here,” he said.

  “You stay where you are,” Christopher said. He checked his watch, hmmmm-ing to himself again, at which point, on cue, his mobile began to rumpty-tump. He flipped it open, raising a finger for Julio to wait.

  “Henry? What’s the position? … Uh-huh, right …”

  We all glanced about each other.

  “Fine. And no calls, no cabs? … Good. Stay where you are and wait for my word.”

  Christopher snapped his phone closed.

  “Grayson’s back at the hotel. Ordered lunch from the front desk and gone straight to his room. No cabs. No airports. Seems pissed off but not going anywhere. The plan holds.”

  “Then you fuck crazy,” Julio said.

  “You,” Christopher said, pointing a finger at Laura. “You will do exactly as we tell you over the next seventy-two hours, you understand me?”

  Laura’s eyes flicked over to me quickly, then back to Christopher.

  “Take Grayson’s card, call his hotel and make yourself available for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Laura said, eyebrows aloft, chin burying into her neck. “Ha, I don’t think so mate. I’ve seen everything I came to see and now I’m off. You like him so much? You take him to –”

  CRACK! – Christopher slapped her a stinging swipe across the cheek, flat palmed and loud.

  Laura spun, hand to her face, white with shock.

  I stumbled, knees loose, diving at Christopher spastically but Pete shoved his broad body between us, chest out, chin up, forcing me backwards.

  Blinking, breathing deep, Laura stood, regaining her cool, flicking hair from her face. Christopher pointed the business end of his mobile phone at her.

  “This is your doing, honey. You sashayed in here with a wiggle in your walk and a giggle in your talk. It’s ten minutes past too damned late to start backing out now. You have half a million pounds you want to donate to the Save the Trickster Fund?”

  Laura just blinked back at him, shaken.

  “Thought not. Then, young mademoiselle, I regret you’re involved right up to your pretty little earlobes. You will be available for dinner,” Christopher reiterated, bristling, like wind over a cornfield. I got the impression that enough was beginning to be enough. “You are thrilled to be asked, you’ve never seen a place like it, he’s such a gentleman, etcetera etcetera. Pearls, furs, the lot. Laugh at his jokes, pick fluff off his collar, get him to impress you. But don’t fuck him.”

  “!” Laura said, eyes wide, jaw dropping.

  “You think that’s wise?” Pete said, stroking his chin. “We gotta keep him sweet …”

  “No,” Christopher said. “He gets her on the king-size wearing her ankles as earrings on the first date, he’s got less of a reason to stick around.” He turned to Laura, who had shifted her weight onto one hip and hoisted one eyebrow up within the flickering fluorescents attempting to assert herself a little. “Let him know it’s on the menu –”

  “Believe,” Laura corrected, voice shaky. “You mean let him believe it’s on the menu.”

  “Potato, potah-to,” Christopher said. “Keep him keen. Think you can manage that?”

  Laura looked at Christopher. Then around the room.

  Julio slid his bag from his shoulder and dropped it to the floor with a thud.

  “Okay, it’s ten past eleven. Henry will call Grayson this afternoon. Four o’clock. He agrees to the meet, we’re back here tomorrow for scene two. Julio?”

  “This is mistake,” Julio said.

  “Julio, you’re checking the ca
se and getting it to our man at the Windmill. Pete?”

  “Installing the alarm,” Pete nodded.

  “That’s it,” Christopher said smartly. “Let’s go munchkins. Choppity chop.”

  Pete stuck around wiring the alarm dutifully while Christopher addressed another in a long line of jiffy bags, changed ninety-five pounds into fivers and he and Julio set off to prove once again there was such a thing as a free lunch. I made Laura a nervous coffee, managing to shake most of the granules onto the kitchen floor.

  I took her drink over to the counter and placed it down on the back of an envelope.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Forget it,” she said.

  “These … these are serious men. This is a serious business. I …”

  Laura lifted her coffee, the envelope tacking to the bottom of the mug. She peeled it off and handed it to me. It was the letter to my father, still unfinished. I balanced it atop the final demands in my in-tray.

  “He was out of order,” I said, looking at her. “That was …” My hands were still a little shaky. I swallowed hard. “But it shows … well, believe me, they’re not going to have their money taken away from them just because you want to play Jessica Rabbit.”

  Laura laughed at this, which was a relief in some ways, if not rather irritating in a dozen others. She jabbed a thumb at a yellowing poster of Humphrey Bogart Blu-tacked to one damp wall, pistol in his hand, hat over his eyes.

  “That’s who you remind me of,” she said. “Don’t get involved shweetheart, dis is a man’s racket, y’hear? You don’t wanna get yourself bruised, toots.”

  “This is serious,” I said. “It may be a bit of fun for you but if … ? I don’t like the idea of you alone with this American.” “I can handle –”

  “Handle y’self, I know I know. You … you’ve got some sass, that much is true.”

  Laura raised a finely plucked eyebrow.

  “But a hip-wiggle when you go to the powder room is fine for a Saturday night up west. It isn’t going to save you if this man smells a rat. I …” I looked at her. “I don’t want you involved.”

  “Awww. That’s sweet.”

  “I mean it. You stumbled into this and that’s my fault. I should get you out of this. We don’t know anything about this Grayson guy.”

  “Apart from he’s a comic book geek. And a very wealthy one at that.” Laura slipped off the edge of the counter and handed me her coffee mug. “Hell, I’ve done a lot worse.”