Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Look, I had it, I don’t have it anymore. Stick that on your liability form.”

  “But in cases such as –”

  “No no, we agreed. Way back when this was being organised. I spoke to Japan and they quoted –”

  “Mr Martin –”

  “They quoted three hundred thousand. Their figure.”

  I pushed in, the bell jingling softly. The familiar draughts of damp dust and decay filled my lungs.

  “It was made clear however, on page five of –”

  “No, no no no.”

  “On page five, in light of the circumstances in Los Angeles, the second auction, recommendations were made that –”

  “Hold it. Neil?” Pete said, catching sight of me lurking by the postcard rack. “Shit, it’s you. Christ. Grayson gone?”

  “Just ran into him,” I said. “He’s looking for a cab.”

  “Phwooo, thank God,” and the two men collapsed all over the desk.

  Heroes Incorporated was just as I’d left it. Nothing stolen, nothing missing, nothing cleared out. No empty racks, no empty walls. Just two men high-fiving each other and saying ‘good job’ too much.

  “He say anything to you?” Henry asked, closing his prop briefcase and tugging off his ugly tie.

  “Uhmm, just that the Siegel pants are probably worth around two million dollars –”

  “Ha,” Pete grinned. “You should’a seen his face when I let it slip. You all right Neil?”

  “Me? Uhh, yes.” I looked about the shop once again. The shelves. The smiles. Humphrey Bogart on the wall. Elvis pouting down from above. “I just … It’s fine.” I gave myself a little shake.

  “Grayson say he was heading Kensington way to meet Christopher?”

  “Actually I think he said something about Bethnal –”

  The phone interrupted us with a jangle from the counter. I lifted it gingerly.

  “Heroes Incorporated?”

  It was Christopher. Where had I run off to? What was the big hurry?

  I coughed and bluffed and laughed it off, embarrassed. Made some noises about an appointment that I’m certain he didn’t buy.

  Upshot was he had good news and bad.

  The three of us took a vote. Good news first.

  Grayson had taken the bait. Now believing the stolen undies were worth four times what poor bed-ridden Christopher was asking for them, Grayson was absolutely clamouring to get his sweaty fat fingers on them and get out of the country.

  So the deal had been agreed. Grayson would bring the money in used dollar bills, to Christopher’s Kensington flat on the way to the airport.

  In the shop, this brought on a round of dancing, another round of high fives and us inevitably to the bad news.

  Grayson had moved his departure flight back by a day.

  What fives there were, were now considerably lower.

  “Tomorrow?” Henry said. He stopped dancing. “Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?”

  “Henry says why –”

  “I can hear him. Pop him on,” Christopher said. I handed the receiver over and sat myself down behind the desk.

  “That gives Grayson what?” I said anxiously. “24 hours to change his mind?”

  “Or to figure out he’s being played,” Pete said. “Shit. He could call LA, start asking questions. Some comic book shop, some collector or other. Auction? What auction?”

  “I’ll get him to talk to her,” Henry was saying. “No worries,” and he hung up. “Christopher thinks we’d better get the dame involved again.”

  “Dame?” I wobbled.

  “Your beloved Laura. To keep him busy. Off the net, away from the phone. Sounds like she’s the reason he’s stickin’ around anyway. Quite taken his fancy has our little waitress.”

  “No. No way,” I said. “We can’t. You didn’t hear her last night.”

  “We heard her,” Pete said flatly. “This is a whole different situation.”

  “Right,” Henry backed him up. “Last night Grayson was angry. He’d been conned. Made to look like a patsy. A five-thousand mile flight to buy a fake comic book? Of course he was angry. Jesus, who wouldn’t be. But tonight?”

  “Tonight, hell, he’s a big shot again,” Pete said. “He’ll be all ‘ahh showed him, that lahmey sonofabitch’. Swaggering around. He’s conning the conman. Getting his own back to the tune of one and a half million pounds. It’ll be champagne and cocktails and dancing. Here’s what you do –”

  “No. No no no, she’s not getting any more involved.”

  “She’ll be fine, listen to what we’re saying. Grayson’s a hero. Mister success-story, Mister big swinging dick. He’ll treat her like a princess. Dance her round, twirl her about, buying drinks, buying flowers. He won’t be able to get the dumb gullible grin off his face.”

  “I … I don’t know. She sounded … last night I mean, she –”

  “Track her down. Track her down and just get her to call him. Tell him she misses him. Wants to see him tonight. Restaurant, club, casino, whatever it is. Anything to stop him sitting in his room watching cable, mulling it over in his head.”

  Lord. I checked my watch. Lunchtime. She’d be at the coffee shop, steaming milk and spreading tuna.

  We were so close.

  “Well … okay,” I said, getting up. “Okay I’ll go see if she’s up for it. But I’m not sure she’ll –”

  “Er, hold your fuckin’ horses, mate. You’ll see if she’s up for it?” Henry said, eyes widening. “Let me explain something to you pal,” and he produced a long finger and proceeded to point the business end of it at me. “She’s part of this now. Full time. Bang on. Paid up. This isn’t a fuckin’ reading group. She can’t just phone ahead on the night and say she don’t fancy it. Say she wants to stay home and pick her feet and watch ER, you get me? For the length of this game, she’s on the team. That means she jumps when the team jumps, she sleeps when the team sleeps and she takes a shit when we say so.”

  I nodded to show I understood. Then nodded again. And then a third time. And a few more times. Pretty much until Henry and Pete let go of my throat.

  “You gonna answer that?” Laura asked.

  “In a second,” I replied, ignoring the faint chirrup on the table beside me. “I need you to tell me you understand what I’m saying. You have to call Grayson. You have to call him. Now.”

  We were in a booth in the coffee shop. I’d arrived to find her skulking in there with the Metro crossword and a double espresso, on a short break. She had a plain, tight T-shirt on and a red scarf about her neck like an extra from West Side Story. Her red ballet shoes were off, small stockinged feet stretching and pointing under the table, red toenails done just-so.

  “Could be important,” Laura said, glancing at the phone. “Could be Maurice, telling you he’s called off his lawyers? How long have you got before they dish out a summons? Friday isn’t it? Maybe he’s had a change of heart?”

  “A change – ? Maurice is a pyjama-wearing Trekkie. If he doesn’t change his shirt when he gets out of bed, how often do you think he changes his heart? Look, this is serious.” The phone continued to deedle-deet. A few other diners glanced over.

  “Could be your Mr Cheng? His collector might want to buy your whole stock. Gets you out of trouble. Won’t need your new friends anymore. Won’t need me. I can stay in and have a bath.”

  “Laura –”

  “You want me to answer it?” and she reached forward.

  “No, give it here. Christ.” I checked the display. A sick weight leaned against my heart, insides rolling. Swallowing a fat throat of nerves, I sighed, thumbing off the phone.

  “Ahhh, married life.”

  “Yes,” I said, bottled anger suddenly spilling among the ketchups and sachets on the formica. “Yes, married life. That’s what this, all this, is about. That’s what I’m trying to protect. Trying to save. And you can help.”

  Laura rolled her eyes a little.

  “Fine. Okay,” and I sat back, petulantly.
“Mock. Whatever. But it’s all I’ve got. And I’m hanging on to it. I’m not letting burst pipes, bad plumbing, stuck-up in-laws or fucking insurance cheques take my family away from me. I found someone who loves me and I love her and I’ve fucked it up and I’m putting it right. I’m not losing her. Not because of this. Not because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “We need you. I need you. Call Grayson, get him to taiiiiyyyyyeee –”

  Laura smirked, removing her stockinged toes from my trouser leg.

  “Laura, please. Get him to take you to –”

  “A casino, a restaurant, karaoke, yeah yeah I get you,” Laura said. “And your guys guarantee I’ll be safe? I’m telling you, last night, I swear he was about to –”

  “He’ll be celebrating,” I soothed. “As far as he’s concerned he’s about to buy Superman’s actual underpants for practically nothing.”

  “Half a million pounds is practically nothing?”

  “If you’re Bob Grayson, yes. You’ve seen how he lives.”

  “Well I’ve seen how his credit card lives,” Laura said. She looked at me and then checked the clock on the café wall. “I’m due back,” she said, tugging a grimy apron from half under her bum. “I’ll call him when I’m done here. Six-ish.”

  “Six – ? No no no. It has to be now”. I tried my best to repeat Henry’s speech, throwing in a you wanna play the moll, and a bit of this ain’t no fuckin’ readin’ group. I might have even said, lookie-here lady. I can’t be sure.

  Either way, Laura took it on board in her own inimitable style.

  “No, I’ll take a shit when I feel like it,” she said, standing up. “Your team of hoodlums don’t tell me what to do. They might frighten you, but I’ve been slapped before and I can walk away any time I want.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, I –”

  “S’all right. I know I still owe you for helping me that night. You came to my rescue. I’ll make the call,” and she kissed me gently on the cheek. “Go home and try not to worry.”

  Good advice, I thought.

  So, bearing that in mind, I went out to dinner and panicked.

  twelve

  “Promise me you won’t get upset,” Jane said.

  I looked up from my dessert into her beautiful clear blue eyes, shining with candlelight and wine.

  My wine, I mean. Not hers. Jane was on mineral water, what with the breastfeeding and everything. But I’d probably put away the better part of five glasses of red so everything – Jane’s eyes, the restaurant flowers, the Best of Clannad wafting among the spotlights – all swum in a warm fuzzy buzz.

  “Promise,” I think I said, winey teeth and purple lips darkly reflected in the long stemmed glass.

  It had been Jane on the phone in the café. Suggesting a late supper. Designed to clear air that frankly I’d had no idea I’d been fogging up. But apparently, it turned out over an overpriced main course, my late night phone calls, odd shop hours and distant demeanour had not gone entirely unnoticed. And what with Jack and Catherine due for dinner come Thursday night, Jane had thought it best to book babysitters and make sure all in Putney was rosy.

  “I thought you might … I mean not now. But before. With everything,” and she waved a slender hand loosely. “I thought you were having second thoughts. About us.”

  “What are you saying?” I said. “Thoughts? What on earth … ?”

  “Thank you sir,” the waiter said, suddenly at my shoulder, sliding a silver tray onto the table with a folded slip on it. I plucked it up, opened it and swallowed hard.

  Jane continued to talk softly but I only picked up every fifth word, busy as my head was with some panicky mental calculations.

  Pay bill, write cheque to VISA. Day’s post. Three days to clear, add a nought, carry the one …

  “Just, you know, recently. You seemed to get all withdrawn. I put it down to the leak. The worry, Earl’s Court and what have you. But you’re less and less involved with Lana. It’s like it’s dawning on you what you’re getting into. Parenthood. And with your father as a role model …”

  “Hn? Sorry. Yes. I-I mean no, no, don’t be silly …”

  … plus the APR. Plus fees. Plus starter, two bruschetta, a bottle of house red …

  Fuck it, I thought with a rattle of my head, fished out my wallet, closed my eyes and flipped out the first bit of plastic I could find. The waiter coughed, so I removed my expired Blockbuster membership card, did a quick red-faced swap and downed another mouthful of wine.

  The waiter wafted off.

  It would be fine. I’d be shoving my share of Grayson’s cash straight into my bank’s branch on High Holborn come one o’clock tomorrow. A few more hours spent a little more overdrawn I could live with if the bank could.

  I focused back on Jane. She had her head bowed, embarrassed, mumbling.

  “Say again?”

  “Forget it, it doesn’t …” and she shook her head a little. “I just mean how you reacted to having Daddy’s trust fund in our account. Not wanting to deal with it.”

  “That was –”

  “And then all the talk about how I should have married Andrew at University …”

  “Jane, I didn’t –”

  “Yes, yes you were. Making out I should be with some hairy, nurturing, alpha-male provider type. All chunky knits and Greenpeace stickers on his Land Rover. You were planting seeds in my head.”

  “I never meant you and Andrew –”

  “… and then coming home that night to a house full of someone else’s perfume.”

  “God, Jane …”

  “I know. It’s girly and stupid and I’m ashamed of myself. But you were being so secretive. Phone calls in the study, keeping the finances under wraps. What was I meant to think?”

  “You were meant to think I was fulfilling my promise. Looking after you. Letting you concentrate on yourself, on our little –”

  “Sir?” the waiter interrupted. He was back again.

  “On looking after Lana. Playing her more Mozart, reading her books,” I said, pen poised. But there was no slip to sign. No PIN to punch. Just an awkward expression on top of a smart waistcoat.

  “I do apologise. Your card has been … Well, the credit card people are on the telephone. If you’d walk this way, I’m sure we can –”

  “Rejected?” Jane said, her expression hardening slightly about the edges.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” I said, scraping back the chair, smiling over the panic.

  “That’s the Visa. You said you’d paid the Visa,” Jane pressed, loudly. Other diners looked over. “Neil? Have you written those cheques or not? That Maurice man phoned today. I told him you’d sorted it out. Neil?” The anxiety was creeping back into Jane’s voice, skulking at the back of her throat like a vindictive warehouse packer, bending and manhandling the words before shoving them out.

  “It’ll be a mistake,” I said, getting up. I bunched my napkin and tossed it to the table. “They’ll have screwed up somehow, I’ll sort it,” and the waiter led me away, towards the back of the restaurant, giving me a few private seconds to shit my pants.

  Rejected? Oh Christ. Christ, the bank. What was in all those letters I’d binned? More missed mortgage payments? More charges. Frozen accounts? Shit. Oh shit shit shit. My legs were cold, knees loose, throat tightening. What was I going to do? What was I going to do? I didn’t have any cash on me. I had nothing.

  I looked at the back of the waiter, bustling ahead of me. Was that a back you could reason with? Were those the buttocks of a reasonable man? A man who’d understand a discreet IOU between men? Or would there be embarrassment? A fuss? Police?

  “Sir,” the waiter said as we neared the swinging double doors at the rear. The air sizzled with plumes of garlic, the crash-clatter of steel pans and thick china. “Sir, forgive the subterfuge,” and he handed me a credit card machine.

  Two meals. Plus drinks. Plus service.

  All present and correct.

  �
�But this … ? You said – ?”

  “The gentlemen said it was important.”

  “Gentlemen?” I said, bewildered, jabbing four relieved digits.

  “Through here?” The sounds of the kitchen faded up in the mix. Shouts and bangs and thick smells. I looked up. The waiter had the kitchen door open.

  “Where the hell is she, you sneaky son of a bitch?” Pete said, eyes blazing.

  “Yes,” Christopher oozed. “Hate to be a bore, intruding on your evening and such forth but as Pete so delicately put it, where the hell is she, you sneaky … what not? Hmmn?”

  We were standing in a cloud of steam in the noisy kitchen. The air was wet and hot and I was getting that way myself. Men in grubby white cotton pushed past us, yelling, shoving. The doors swung wide and loose, cracking me on the back as trays and plates were waltzed in on high fingertips.

  Pete and Christopher weren’t happy. Weren’t happy at all.

  “You spoke to her? Explained what we needed?”

  “What? Yes, yes of course,” I hissed. God, I’d been gone a while. Jane was going to start – “Hey!”

  “Worry about us,” Pete said. He had my tie in his flat, dark hand, wrapped around his knuckles, pulling hard. I stared frightened into his wide eyes. “Listen. Julio followed Grayson to a pub in Bethnal Green. He stayed for an hour then headed back to pick the girl up from the café. Both back to his hotel then to a restaurant off Grosvenor Square. Four hours later, they were still in there. Julio goes in. Gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Poof,” Christopher said camply. “Sorry, no offence duckie,” and his eyes flicked up and down my sports coat and khakis. “I mean, vanished. No sign. Not out the back, not out the front. What’s in Bethnal Green? Where are they? What have you two cooked up?”

  “I d-don’t – Ow, ow! You’re pulling too –” I pleaded as best I could with a vintage silk garrotte pressed against my Adam’s apple. “I don’t know!”

  “She was your call,” Pete hissed, almost lifting me off my feet. My eyes stung, dazzled by the bright ceiling lights. I was sweating great wet LP-sized circles under my arms. The noise, the fear, the overwhelming garlic.