Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “It’s all right,” the clerk said, clearly noting my hesitation.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just …”

  “Light is our clients’ number one concern. Along with air quality of course. The whole room is UV free. Plus you’re in a Mylar container there,” she said, pointing to the tag on the key. “US National Archives and the Library of Congress use the same system. Mr Spencer was very anxious his investment was protected.”

  His investment? Figured.

  I hurriedly slipped the velvet pouch into the protective darkness of my satchel, feeling the cold solid sealed plastic box through the fabric and handed her back the key.

  “That it sir?” she said.

  I nodded quickly, heart in my throat.

  “I’ll need your signature on the release slip. Will you want the box kept here for you?” she asked.

  “Yes yes. God, it’ll only be away for a few hours I hope.”

  “Letting an expert take a look?” she smiled.

  “Uhm, of sorts,” I said.

  My phone was deedly-deeting as I emerged back, squinting, on the chilly street.

  “He’s -anged the venue,” Andrew crackled. “Must be as you said. Throwing -e a dummy to -ake it sound convin –” The line was breaking up. “Says he’s -ot to get an earlier fligh –. Wants to meet at the restau … four.”

  “Four? Meet at four? Shit. Where? Which restaurant … ? Benno? Hello?”

  “-ello? Oh bloody h –”

  The line fizzed and crackled and died like a damp, pay-as-you-go firework.

  I stood, trainers sticky on the pavement, glued by panic and indecision. An hour. Around me, city boys jostled and barged with huge weekend-rugby shoulders. I clutched the satchel hard to my chest.

  Think. Think Neil, think.

  I shut my eyes, buffeted and elbowed by the sea of Hackett elbows and Loake’s brogues. Where would Christopher take him? Somewhere fancy. Somewhere fitting a high-rolling city insurer. Claridge’s again? No. Not after the jiffy bag and kitten sting. He wouldn’t be going back there again. Then where? Somewhere else in his little black note – ?

  Wait.

  The world lurched forward suddenly. I opened my eyes, the winter sun low and bright.

  Wait.

  Twirling and spinning, horizon tipping, I stumbled around, eyes scanning the street. Sandwich bars, travel agents, key-cutters, there!

  Satchel tight, digging into my ribs, I darted across Ravensgate to the blare of taxi horns into a small WHSmith. The shop was humming. Suited men buying Evening Standards, women choosing monthly glossies. I scanned the signage like a lunatic until I stumbled breathlessly past newspapers and greetings cards into the travel guides section. I dumped my satchel to the floor and craned my neck, eyes peeling over the shelves until – a-ha. I took the fattest, most comprehensive London restaurant guide from the shelf and flicked towards the index where the eateries were listed alphabetically.

  C’mon, c’mon …

  That afternoon at Claridge’s. Sat at the table. He’d flipped to the back of his notebook where a list of some sort had been written in his neat blue hand. The Clarendon I’ve done, he’d said and crossed it out.

  How else would you do it? If you conned a free dinner out of a different London restaurant every day, what simpler way than this to make sure you didn’t accidentally dine at the same place twice?

  I scanned down the guide, closing my ankles tight about my bag on the floor. Clannaught in Mayfair. Clarendon on St James. Claridge’s, Hanover Square. That had been last Friday. So, Saturday, Sunday, Monday …

  I began to count down the list. Ten days since then. Ten entries down.

  Page 96. I thumbed back quickly. A short entry. Ultra modern, stripped wood, low lighting, international cuisine. Starters from £12.

  That could be the one. Should be the one.

  God please let that be the one.

  I shoved the book back on the shelf and grabbed up my bag, hurrying from the shop and waving for a cab.

  “Soho mate,” I said, hauling myself in and falling all over the vinyl.

  I slammed the door and with a wide lurch, we were off.

  It was creeping up on three twenty-five when my phone began deedly-deeting again. Fumbling fingers, I eased it carefully from the satchel and thumbed it open.

  “It’s me,” Andrew said. The line was clearer. “My cell’s playing silly-buggers. I’m calling from my desk so I’ve got to be quick. O’Shea’s calling a meeting this afternoon at the Holborn site for something or other but I’ve told him it’s an emergency. Did you manage to get you know what?”

  “Right here,” I said, running my hands over the hard square shape in my bag.

  “Great. But we’ve got a problem. The bloody restaurant he’s picked is all the way over in Soho.”

  “Lexington Street?”

  “What? Yes.”

  “The Crib? Two stars. Terrace at rear?”

  “Jesus, how did you – ?”

  “Lucky guess. I’m halfway there. What’s the plan? Outside in fifteen minutes?”

  “You’re on. Find a doorway or a phone-box opposite side. I’ll see you there.”

  Andrew’s cab finally pulled up at ten to four, just as I was re-reading the phone-box’s hypnotic, soft porn interior décor for the thirtieth time in an attempt to keep my reeling mind steady.

  Breathe in … eighteen-year-old pre-op transsexual new to area wants discipline … and out.

  “All right?” I said as he heaved open the door to join me, his cab pulling away in a cough of London dust. He clambered in and shuffled up a bit, the heavy door swinging shut slowly.

  We breathed warm breaths intimately, our chests pressed together, elbows banging on the glass.

  “Fine fine. What time you got? Ten to? Okay.” He was as nervous as me but trying harder not to show it. Through the greasy glass panes we had a view of the restaurant opposite. The Crib was a large modern place with a brushed chrome and oak façade, its lettering in a squat, lower-case orange that had been cutting-edge for about an hour and a half two years ago. Through its smoked glass we could see stocky gay men laying out linen, horsey blonde waitresses three-day eventing between them.

  “Right then,” Andrew said, composing himself with a puff and a cough. “Christopher said on the phone he was bringing someone from valuation with him. Any clue as to who that’ll be?”

  “God,” I said, and if there had been room to shrug I would have done. “If he’s working with the same team, then it’s most likely to be Henry – Australian guy, youngish. Or maybe Pete. Black guy, tall. They seem the tightest with him.”

  “Righto. I gave the restaurant a bell on the way here to see if I could get you a table for one, but –”

  “Me?!” I jumped, banging my arm on the phone painfully. “Ow. Me? I can’t be seen in there. Are you out of your mind?”

  “I just thought it would be helpful, y’know? Have you listen in. Round a corner or something. But the maître d’ says it’s all pretty open plan. We’ll have to come up with something else. I thought this might work,”and Andrew banged his elbows a bit, tugging out the usual breath mints, matches and a Zippo, laying them on top of the phone before fishing out his phone.

  “Do you carry this shit with you everywhere? You don’t even smoke.”

  “True. O’Shea does though. Corny I know, but it never hurts to light a man’s cigar.”

  Unravelling his hands-free cable, he stuffed the tiny earpiece into his inside pocket, letting the wire and mouthpiece dangle just inside the jacket. He slipped the phone into his trouser pocket and let his jacket fall closed, hiding the wires.

  “There. An instant bugging device. If you call me on your phone, you should be able to hear everything we say at the table.”

  “You sure your phone’s reliable?”

  “Hmn. Could be right there old man. Let’s try yours,” and we swapped them over. Andrew pointed at the phone-box receiver. “You can call from here if mine�
��s clunky. Try it.”

  I lifted the receiver and shoved my credit card into the slot, dialling my phone. Andrew thumbed open the line and slipped the glowing handset into his jacket. He cleared his throat.

  “Ahem. I’ll have the prawn cocktail cocktail, the chicken kievs kievs followed by the black forest gateaux gateaux,” he said, his voice echoing a second later in my ear. “How’s that that?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Then that’s it. You have the bait?”

  I took a deep breath, swallowed twice and handed him my satchel.

  “Is it all right in here? Nothing I need to know? Don’t get it wet, don’t feed it after midnight, anything like that?”

  “It’s in a velvet pouch and sealed in an Impregnated Mylar-S Sleeve with an Oxy-Sorb inside,” I said. “You don’t let him take it out of the pouch unless he’s wearing gloves and you keep it out of direct light.”

  Andrew nodded, pushing open the heavy door. The street was quiet. Just the distant sigh of traffic.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said. “We’re just going to see what he says. We’ll be on the coffee before you know it and you’ll have it back in the bank.” He waggled his lapel. “Don’t forget I’m on Radio Con FM.”

  He let the door swing shut and checking the street, jogged across to the restaurant whispering into his lapel.

  I placed the phone to my ear, stomach rolling, seasick with nerves.

  “Receiving me? Niner niner ten-four come back?” Andrew crackled. “Here we go.”

  Crouching down in the little booth, I watched him through the tiny panes as he entered the restaurant. He approached a lectern where a tall blond man waited with a book.

  “Good afternoon. I’m meeting a Mr Fitzgerald here at four o’clock?” he crackled in my ear.

  Andrew’s shape was lost among the reflections in the window, just as a large black reflection peeled up to the kerb.

  I swallowed hard at the sound of slamming doors and familiar voices, my hands cold around the receiver. I found myself stumbling back, further from the scratched glass, trying to lose myself amongst the Blu-tacked calling cards. Oh to be a fluorescent eighteen-year-old pre-op transsexual, new to area and needing discipline, I thought.

  Two figures emerged from the cab.

  Christopher. In a sombre suit, the silver attaché case in his hand, pipe in his mouth, shoulders back. Ready for business.

  I could feel my teeth grind. My lip curl.

  Hot, purple hate raged up inside me.

  I wanted to shout. Bang on the glass. Yell, scream, tear at him like an animal.

  Trembling, I watched.

  Behind him, his valuation expert climbed out of the cab and paid the cab driver.

  She then adjusted her stockings, undid a button on her blouse, and followed him in.

  nineteen

  “Then, dearie boy, I think we might just have ourselves a deal-ette. Cheers.”

  “Ch-cheers.”

  “And … mmnm, and how does your wife feel about the possibility of a sale, Mr Mayo?”

  “I-I’m not married. And please, call me An … g-gus. Angus.”

  “Angus?”

  “(cough) Right. (clatter) Oops S-sorry, was that your – ?”

  “It’s fine. Really. I quite enjoyed it.”

  I jammed my finger knuckle-deep into my ear and pressed my head against the receiver hard, breath fogging the scratchy glass.

  They were on their main courses as far as I could tell. That is to say, I’d heard them all make the same yummy noises, the same two asparagusy chomps and the same unsatisfied sighs as they’d then all pushed their plates away a second later. Introductions had been brief, Christopher ladling on the righty-hoes and indeedy-dooberies in his usual flowery manner and they’d got down to business immediately. Andrew had brought out the Mylar sleeve to a round of gasps and a well-bless-my-gracious, the rest of the wine and starters being been taken up by Christopher’s well-rehearsed whittering – scarcity, market value, auctions – all text-book stuff and all lifted verbatim from me and what sounded like half an episode of the Antiques Roadshow.

  In fact, standing there in the callbox, my only real concern was Laura. Or Margaret. Or whatever the hell she was calling herself.

  “And you were saying, you’re not married?”

  “Huh? No, no, I’m –”

  “Free and single?”

  “Well (cough) uhmm, is that your (yelp thud giggle).”

  God, what the hell was she doing to the poor man?

  This free and single line was just the latest in a meal-full of giggles, come-ons, chat-ups and breathy adolescent flirting. From the moment they’d sat down in fact, Christopher had had to crowbar his valuation and insurance waffle between Laura’s coquettish compliments and tarty teasing. All gorgeous tie, Mr Mayo. Can I feel? and oooh, it’s warm in here. All these accompanied by sporadic whimpers, yelps and bangs of cutlery, leading me to only imagine at what was going on under the table.

  Now you need to understand, it’s not that Andrew’s a bad-looking bloke. He isn’t. At college at least, the Byronic beard, fisherman’s jumpers and brooding concern for wildlife, all wrapped up in broad shoulders and Nordic, eco-warrior jawline was quite the catnip to the hall full of moony first years.

  But Laura’s flirty temptress act? This was out of all proportion. Now clearly she was just role-playing her usual part in Christopher’s elaborate set-up. The same part she’d performed for me. But as I listened intently within the stuffy callbox, face screwed up, straining for every murmur, I could tell something wasn’t right. Her tone, her manner. It was different from before. Dangerous. Urgent, even. The pouty coffee-shop girl had been replaced by a more obvious bored-business-woman-looking-for-a-quick-hotel-room-and-a-good-hard –

  Deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet dee.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  Deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet dee.

  Dropping the handset with a loud plastic crack, I fumbled in my jacket, Andrew’s clunky mobile phone trilling out again. O’Shea’s name flashed in the display.

  Christ.

  Deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet deedle-ee-deet dee.

  Panicky and cursing, I swallowed hard and thumbed open the line.

  Deedle-ee-deet dee –

  “H-hello?”

  “- enjamin? That you?” the line crackled. Where da – ell are ye?”

  “Er, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Andrew’s a bit tied up …”

  “Eh? What? Speak up, I -anny hear a ting there. Benjami – ?”

  “Can I give him a message? He’s just away from the phone.”

  “-essage? Jeezus, you can tell -at greedy eejit that I didn’t just -ome over on the la … erry. Who does he th- … dealing with? -ello? I -ant to see his f- … xplain wh- ello? -y half past fi- … -ello?”

  The line went dead.

  Shit.

  I thought about Andrew. His share options. His Long Island holiday home. A corner office overlooking the park.

  Biting my lip hard, I retrieved the swinging handset and pressed it to my ear. It had gone eerily quiet. Oh God. Oh God, had they heard the ring? Was the game all –

  “Neil?” a voice hissed down the line. “Neil? Where are you?”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” I jittered. “O’Shea just called. Where are you – ?”

  “Gents. It’s all … Just get over here. Get over here now.”

  A moment later I was shuffling in a half crouch, past the brushed chrome and pale wood, under pin-pricks of halogens, down a short echoey corridor. Thudding through the door, I fell into the polished glare of the bathroom.

  “Thank God. You all right?” Andrew said quickly. He was at the wide basins in his shirt sleeves, running a tap noisily. My satchel leaned up against the wall. He scuttled forward and pulled me further in with soggy hands.

  “You okay?”

  “Bloody hell. I’m not cut out for this,” and he paced, puffing, breathing dee
p.

  “What’s he … I-I mean, have you figured out what his game is?”

  “I’ve no bloody idea,” Andrew said, splashing water on his face, moving dripping to the blow-dryer. “He’s got my signature on some form.”

  “Signature – ?”

  “Got me to sign with a fountain pen. A validation. Saying I’ve heard his opinion and am aware of the potential value and so on. Paperwork. Just covering their backs, nothing more. But Lordy, this Linda?”

  “Linda?”

  “It’s what she’s calling herself. Linda something. Phew-ee, I see what you mean old stick. She’s all over me. Shoes off under the table, toes in my groin, I don’t know where to look.”

  “All part of the plan, y’think?”

  “Possible.”

  “Only possible? You think she genuinely … ?”

  “I don’t know, do I? All I know is, Christopher’s trying to butter me up, lure me in, get me all excited. But all the while the woman’s got her shoes off and her toes halfway up my trouser leg. I’m just saying, if they wanted me to concentrate on his pitch, she’d be better leaving her toes where they … wait,” and he stopped suddenly. “Wait, you say O’Shea called? Hell’s bells, what did he say?”

  I explained the garbled message. Something about not coming over on the last ferry? Who you think you are dealing with? Greedy eejits?

  “Bloody hell,” Andrew said, spinning and snarling. “He doesn’t … Shit.” He flashed a look at his watch. “They’re going to be wondering where I am. There’s a meeting at five. Can you …” he paced, panicky. “Look, here,” and he tugged a fat wedge of folded paperwork from his hip pocket and a couple of twenty pound notes. “Here. This is where O’Shea is. Take this, get a cab back to my office. I’ll get someone there to put the paperwork at reception,” and he snatched the phone from his inside pocket.

  “Wait wait wait. Paperwork? Leave you here?” I checked my watch. “Isn’t there some other wh-EYY!” I yelped, suddenly stumbling backwards, Andrew shoving me hard in the chest. I slammed into a toilet cubicle loudly, arms flailing, bumping the backs of my knees against the lavatory and found myself suddenly sitting on the loo. Andrew, eyes wide and panicked, put his finger to his lips quickly and swung the door shut.