“Christ, this isn’t a date.”
“Well until I can find myself a wealthy comic book geek of my own,” and she was suddenly snaking her hand around my ear, pulling me forwards a little, “he’ll have to do.”
She leaned in quickly, closing her eyes, at which point the world was suddenly wrenched in half by a head thudding shriek. I slipped off the desk, coffee splashing, Laura backing away hands flying to her ears.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled, the words thick and muddy through the blurring wail.
Abruptly, the alarm stopped, leaving the room swaying and throbbing in a high-pitched silence.
“Sorry,” Pete said, appearing in the office doorway with his pliers. “Alarm’s set. Better keep your hands off the pants from now on.”
“I’ll try,” Laura said.
I looked at her. Had she … ? I felt my cheeks beginning their familiar adolescent glow.
“I …” my voice croaked.
“Quite,” Laura said. “And I’d better get off to work. Are you … ?”
“I’d better give Jane a call,” I said quickly, nodding and fidgeting.
“Then wish me luck,” she said, flapping the Kansas business-card and I watched her wander, heels clicking up the shop, through the door with a jangle, and click off up the cobbled street.
I stared into space for a few minutes and then gave Jane a call to tell her I loved her very very very very much.
ten
“Kissed her?”
“Kissed her.”
“Where?”
“Left cheek.”
“Thank you Desmond Morris. I mean where?”
“Oh.” Julio flicked through his pocket book irritably. “At Oxo Tower. Before dessert. Then they cab to Garrick Street. A club. Private members. A bar. Dancing.”
“Did Laura behave?”
I felt Christopher, Pete and Julio all not turning to look over at me.
“Grayson all over her some more and she flirt a little back. He mostly talk up his background. Kansas. What he got, what he getting, how much he worth. Trying to impress. Told her he had contacts. That there would be no way he would not get to this auction. He was a major player.”
“And after Garrick Street?”
“Cab back to hotel. He offer her drink in his room, she say another time maybe.”
“Another time. Good girl,” Christopher nodded. “Hmn, this may yet turn out to be not quite the fiasco we imagined.” Whipping out his telephone, he thumbed down the address book. “And the case is in place, Julio?”
“Drop it off on way here.”
“Test the bottom?”
“Of course.”
Christopher checked the kitchen timer as his mobile dialled out.
It was Tuesday morning. Elvis had the big hand on his preposterous collar and the little hand in his right eyebrow and I had my hands round my second take-out latte. Was it wrong of me to be feeling … not friendship. Not friendship at all in fact.
But camaraderie? A sense of teamwork?
While at university, I had thrived on the chumminess. Relied on it, I suppose. Jane, Andrew and I, biffing about together. Leaning on each other. Lending revision notes and kindly ears – depending on what was required obviously. But since then … ? Well shop life can be a lonely business, failing-shop life even more so. It had only been four days since we’d met, but I was getting used to having these guys around. Still didn’t trust them as far as my cardboard Chewbacca could throw them of course.
But for better or worse, camaraderie was what I felt.
Monday had been another painful evening at home. Our weekly classical-music, candles and massage night had been spoilt by my fidgety nerves. Nerves which I successfully managed to transmit, through the magical powers of pummelling and oils, into Jane’s bare spine, causing her to develop a blinding headache and a bad back. Candles out, lights on, music off, Lana was changed grumpily while I clattered crockery in the kitchen and fretted.
As we had dressed for bed, flossing and splashing, Jane had tried to get me to concentrate on the plans for Thursday’s dinner with her old school friends Catherine and Jack.
Thursday, I’d thought. By then it would all be over. God, it couldn’t come quick enough.
Jane, noting my distance, then tried to get me involved in some stress-relieving sex instead; however, it turned out that Thursday wasn’t the only thing that couldn’t come quick enough so there was some rolling off and reaching for books, leaving me staring at the damp on the ceiling and worrying.
“Henry, it’s me,” Christopher said, getting up for a bit of a pace among the postcards and posters. “We’re set here. You ready to make the call? Where’s our mark … ? She’s with him? Now?”
Christopher threw a look at me, which I gave a baffled twist before batting back.
“No. No time, we’ll have to play it with her in tow. Dammit. Look, make the call. I’ll hold on. And remember, you’re a fifteen-year-old rapscallion with a stolen attaché case under your arm, quick cash on your mind and heroin up your nose. Go.”
The shop fell quiet, save the usual soft burble of the midmorning radio news. Everyone stared at the floor, waiting, waiting. Everyone but Christopher, naturally, who, popping the phone under his chin, began to flap with a pouch of tobacco, tumpty-tumming idly before being jerked back onto the line.
“Well … ? Splendiful, good man. He heading off now? … Well a hackney carriage from South Molton to Windmill Street should bring him to our door in fifteen minutes. Stay with him,” and he snapped the phone closed. “Marvellous.”
“Shit,” Julio added.
“No, no Julio, chin up now,” Christopher jollied. “He’s taken the bait as we knew he would. The young lady’s attendance might in fact work to our advantage. If Grayson –”
“No, I mean shit.”
We all looked at him but he didn’t look back. He was staring over Christopher’s shoulder. At the front door.
It rattled hard.
“Heh? Heh? Ne?” Cheng hollered, peering through cupped hands, breath fogging the wire glass. “You ohp?”
“Christ,” I said, pushing past, hurrying up the shop to the door. The three men shuffled towards the office, backs turned. “I’m … we’re not open yet,” I shouted. “Later, can you come back later?”
“Noh,” Cheng said urgently. “Mus be now. I goh. Fligh to US. One o’cloh. I ha the fye hundreh,” and he began pointing behind me to Redford and Newman on the back wall.
“What’s he want?” Julio called out.
“Shit,” I said, teeth gritted. “He wants to buy The Sting. He’s got a flight at one.”
The door rattled again, Cheng fanning twenty pound notes like a Geisha.
“Send him away,” Christopher hissed. “Grayson could be here any moment. Get rid of him.”
“My buy veh keen to buil relationshih,” Cheng insisted. “I tahe pohst now, he order big lahte.”
“Neil!”
“I … shit, I can’t,” I said. “He’s got contacts. If I sell him this, I can sell him others. I’m … I’m sorry, I need the business. I’m letting him in,” I said and began to flick the latches. “I’ll be quick.”
Cheng bustled in, flapping his money, a large bag over his shoulder, the men disappearing deeper into the office.
“Can we do this quickly, Mr Cheng? I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I scurried down the shop, grabbing up the kick stool, moving behind the desk and clambering up.
“Ease, ease,” Cheng said, hands held out. “I dohn whan damage.”
I lifted the huge frame from the wall slowly, stepping back down, turning and laying it face down onto the untidy desk while Cheng busied himself in his bag, tugging out a large plastic poster tube.
In the back office, Christopher’s mobile phone gave a muffled chirrup.
“Whas thih?” Cheng said. He was peering into the new display case, sweet breath fogging the Perspex. “Holy … thih reeh? When you geh thih? You seh thih?”
�
��They’re not for sale,” I said, flipping the clips on the back hurriedly, releasing the back-board from the frame. With finger tips, I wafted the delicate poster out, holding it up for Cheng to see.
“Jesuh, you hah the tablecloh too? Thih worth thousan. Jesuh … How muh you whah? My collec’ he gih you ten thouhsah?”
“Mr Cheng?”
“Grayson’s on his way,” Pete said behind me, making me start. “Henry just called. Get rid of your customer. Now.”
“Sure, sure, no problem. Mr Cheng? Mr Cheng? I’m going to have to hurry you. I’m sorry …”
Cheng was slowly and methodically measuring his plastic tube against the short edge of the poster, nose inches from the paper, peering closely, blowing away invisible dust.
“Let’s pick up pace shall we?” Julio said, shouldering me aside. He was pulling on his security guard’s uniform, shiny peak pulled down hard over his eyes. He grabbed up the poster in two rough fists, scrabbling it into a roll quickly.
“Whey! Whey! Bubbuh wrap, you bubbuh wrap!”
“He’s a minute away,” Christopher called out suddenly, appearing in the office doorway, mobile phone held to his chest. “Pete, take the counter. Get rid of this guy as fast as you can. Julio, watch the door. Neil, get in the kitchen. Let Pete take over. Mr Cheng is it? Mr Cheng?”
Cheng looked up.
“Neil’s assistant is going to help you now. Thank you for your business. I hope you make your flight. C’mon people. Focus.” He was back on the phone. “Okay Henry, we’re set. ETA? … Good. Wait for the call,” and he snapped the phone shut, pushing me out of sight, a hand on my shoulder. We moved hurriedly through the office into the tiny kitchen once again, pulling the door ajar.
Hearts thudding, we stood and listened to each other breathe in the darkness. The sounds in the shop. The snap, crackle and pop of bubble-wrap, the rustle of paper, Cheng complaining in staccato yelps.
“Reciep?”
“Yes, one second,” Pete said. The till chattered.
“Get rid of him,” Christopher hissed to himself, checking his Mickey Mouse watch.
Grayson would be here any minute.
“Reciep?” Cheng said again.
Any second.
“Come on!”
The door jingled.
“Well g’mornin’, g’mornin’,” Grayson hollered cheerily. A cold wind rustled through the shop. “Come on in honey, come on in, putcha bags down here. Ah jus’ wanna show these gennermen our little good fortune here.” We listened to the door close. “A g’mornin’ sir, you got yur heart set on these briefs too, huh?”
“Whah? Noh, I need reciep. I hah plane to cah,” Cheng said. He was beginning to sound irritated.
“Allow me,” we heard Laura say, followed by a click click and a chatter and the sound of the drawer springing open.
“Beautiful and handy,” Grayson chuckled horribly.
“Ne?” Cheng called loudly. “Ne? He ouh the bah there? Ne?”
Christopher looked up with an angry, accusatory glare, eyes white and wide in the half-light.
“Mr Cheng,” Pete soothed. “Why don’t we –”
“Ne?!”
“Wha’s the fellah shoutin’ about? Someone back there? Huh?”
I held my breath, hard and tight in my chest. Christopher’s eyes narrowed slowly.
“Remember your plane?” Pete was saying. “I think it’s time you were heading off, don’t you? I have to deal with Mr Grayson now, I –”
“Hey boy, what kind’a salesman are you anyhow? Shovin’ yur customers out? Let the man take his time. He knows when his plane is. Jeez this country. Ah tell ya miss, the service in this place …” and thankfully Grayson was off, lecturing Laura on how to treat customers, superior American till technology and tight-assed limey bitches at the Bureau de Change. Somewhere within all this we made out the clatter of Pete chivvying Cheng out onto the street.
Christopher stared at me in silence for an age.
“I … I’m sorry,” I whispered. “He’s a big customer, I-I …”
Christopher put a gloved finger to my lips. I smelled the synthetic rubber, tasted the acid battery tang.
“Step away from case sir,” Julio was saying. “I not tell you again.”
“Okay boy, ahm juss’ showin’ mah gal here. You see this sweetheart? Look at them. The definin’ image of the definitive hero of the twenny-eth century. Universally understood. And these. These. The very pair, the inspiration. Sketched, painted, rendered a thousand times. A cultural mahl-stone …”
While Grayson gosh-gollied and goddarned it, in the kitchen Christopher, one finger still pressed against my lips, was silently fishing out his mobile and thumbing through the address book, face glowing in the faint green light of the display screen. Breath held, heart slamming, there was a pause and then the phone on the shop desk jangled into life.
“That’ll be Sotheby’s in LA,” Pete said loudly.
“LA?”
“Hello? Heroes Incoporated?”
“Relax,” Christopher whispered into his little phone, inches from me. “It’s all going fine.”
“Yes hi, I thought it would be you. What time is it there … ?”
“Remember the delay on the line. Lots of pauses. Make sure Grayson can hear you. And talk insurance.”
“What? Are you there … ? Insurance? No, I’ve had all that covered. You told me to … revalued? What do you mean? The tablecloth?”
Outside, the shop went quiet.
“Oh my God. Are you serious?! When? When was this?”
There was the squeak of Pete dropping into the chair.
“Everythin’ all right boy? Your boss don’t look so good.”
“I don’t know,” I heard Julio saying. “LA have matching tablecloth going up for auction simultaneous. Maybe they had offers in?”
“Then, God, I don’t know,” Pete went on. “Maybe … maybe you should have it collected or something? … Well like you said, I’ve just got the one guard and the alarm … Yes, but who’s going to pay for that … ?”
“What was the reserve for the cape, kid?”
“I no can tell you sir. It a private auction by invite only.”
“I thought you were going to bid,” Laura said. She sounded grumpy, a little spoilt.
“An’ that I am li’l lady. Hey bud, what’s it gonna take to get me into that auction room?” and there was the sound of a zip.
In the darkened kitchen, Christopher cocked his head a little to listen. I pointed at my chest.
“Round his neck,” I whispered. “Wallet?”
“Christ,” Pete said, hanging up noisily.
“Problem?”
“Lock the door. Double lock it. And double check the fire escapes.” There was a clink as Pete tossed Julio the keys. “Damn. I knew I should have let Forbidden Planet … LA want armed bloody guards.”
“Armed?”
“They’ve had a load of early bids in for the tablecloth. Reserve has tripled. They think the pants are likely to go likewise. We should have them moved. Sir? Sorry sir, I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the store? Sir?”
“Ahll right, ahll right. One second. Ah juss came by to give you a promised peep at this l’il baby. Lookie here.” There was a shuffle and a thud and two loud metallic clicks. “You remember yur fellah yesterday? Mr Laurie?”
“With the cut head? Is … is that it? You got his case back?”
“Ha-haa, come here my beauty. Look at that. Careful now … We were shopping. Ah was buyin’ this lovely lady somethin’ pretty. When some guy calls me up. Juss a few minutes ago. Young kid he sounds like. Says he’s got a case in his possession. Nuthin’ in it but a comic book, train ticket to Blidworth and my name and number. Little tyke says if I want it back, it’ll cost me two hundred bucks. Ha!” Grayson barked. “Kid obviously ain’t a collector! Two hundred. Boy, talk about the deal of a lifetime! Told me I could pick it up at some strip joint just down the street there. Two hundred! Your fellah had
me payin’ over five grand.”
“Are you going to call him?” Laura asked.
“Shit, sweetheart!” Grayson laughed. “Why the goddamn hell would I wanna do that?! Finders keepers is what it is. Ain’t no more complicated than that!”
“And there we have it, dear boy,” Christopher whispered in the darkness, eyes wide. A smile slid across his face. “You can’t say we didn’t give him a chance. I now pronounce our mark guilty and will have great pleasure in administering his sentence.”
“This isn’t real.”
“Huh? Say what?”
Pete’s voice.
“This train ticket. It’s just a photocopy. And it’s two years old. Look.”
We listened, breath held, as the shop fell quiet.
“Odd,” Julio said. “Let see the case? Was there anything else in there?”
“Nuthin’. Inside’s a li’l frayed here at the edge of the … shit, what’s this?”
“You got something?”
“The bottom here. At the edge. I can get mah finger in this …”
Which is how Grayson, as planned, came to find eleven other forged copies of Action Comic #4 that Christopher had planted. All identical. Hidden rather clumsily in the suspiciously frayed and patently obvious false bottom of the case.
Grayson, understandably, went rather nuts. And I mean nuts. Even in that cramped kitchen it was loud. Yelling, swearing. “Forgeries? That bastard selling forgeries? That limey fuckin’ son of a bitch. You wait till I get mah hands on that guy. You just wait!” Christopher and I held our breath and gripped the formica while he swore and slammed and swore some more. Julio must have been trying to calm him down at one point because it was suddenly all get your fuckin’ gloves off’a me buddy! and you think ’cause ah’m an old man I won’t slap your mouth?
I, meanwhile, among the crashing and thrashing, was frankly terrified.
Doubly so when Christopher leaned in and said brace yourself.
“Brace – ?” I whispered. “What do you – Jesus!” I screamed, which I was almost certain I wasn’t meant to.
Conman Page 15
