Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Any joy?” Dufford called through. He was closing up his laptop. “It’s getting on. Don’t worry too much if you haven’t, I’ll leave my fax number …”

  Jane gave me the empty wine glass, sighed and turned, carrying our daughter off to the lounge. Stomach tumbling, I made mumbling noises and scuttled back to the nursery, pushing the door closed behind me.

  Christ.

  I leant against the rickety cot and closed my eyes, head hanging loose. The fat, familiar urge to tell Jane everything stirred in my stomach, waking up, rolling its shoulders, threatening to burst out and run roaring around the office chair, over the night-light and dance wildly on the mouse-mat.

  I swallowed hard instead, forcing it down like bile.

  God, how did our marriage come to this? Hiding under hotel beds? Hurrying home drunk and late, full of excuses and lies? What happened to the sharing? The trust? That wasn’t so long ago was it? The swapping midnight secrets? How had I allowed that to wear away? Our marriage still had romance, still had the flirting, the weekly massage, the sex. Didn’t all the magazines and manuals say they all disappeared first? God, wasn’t trust supposed to be the one, solid, immoveable constant that remained.

  God. Trust. What had I done?

  * * *

  An hour ago, Andrew and I had been bickering about that very thing, batting it back and forth, examining it from all sides in his hotel room.

  First we’d decided we couldn’t trust Laura. Simple as that. Laura worked for Christopher and Christopher was the man who’d taken my milk of kindness and left it on a radiator all summer. Either they were playing us together or somehow she was playing us all – toes in our pants, hair mussed just-so – planning to ride off with the money, the comic and our hope.

  Andrew and I promptly drank some more and looked it over some more, at one point diagramming it all out in Andrew’s red notebook, trying to second-guess the whole thing. What if he was playing her? What if she was playing him? God, what if they’re both playing each other?

  By the time two wine bottles were upside down in a bin littered with torn-up pages, we’d reached only one woozy conclusion. I’d thought about this as I hauled on my jacket and stumbled through the hotel lobby into the clear November night.

  If Laura had been lying – making it up, spinning a line, telling us anything to buy her way out of the room – then that would be that. She’d disappear. We’d never see her, Christopher or the money again.

  “Bet you thought you’d never see me again?”

  “Nyyeahhyy,” I blurted, stumbling with a shallow splash, heart and larynx enjoying a quick tango. “Christ, you scared the … Christ. You came back then?”

  “I called out upstairs but you didn’t hear me. Figured you were down here. Clean up not going so well, huh?”

  It was eleven o’clock the next morning. Tuesday. Laura stood, weight on one sassy hip, halfway down my cellar steps. She was in large Ray-Bans, loose denim jeans, hung low revealing a strip of tanned flat stomach and the hint of lace knicker elastic. On top she wore a short, sharp white tee, pulled tight across her chest. A green hooded military-style coat hung over her shoulders, a fat leather bag over an arm, a newspaper under an elbow, filling the low room with the obligatory blue cigarette smoke. I, by contrast, stood ankle deep in thick black water surrounded by filthy plastic buckets, washing-up bowls, bin-bags stacked against Schwartz’s rusted iron door, holding the pulpy sopping remains of a highly prized Wizard of Oz lobby stand.

  “I’ve had better days,” I said, splashing over to the iron shelving, cardboard dripping. “Although damp Munchkins are the least of my worries at the moment.”

  “I imagine.”

  “Even if you manage to get Christopher arrested –”

  “We manage,” Laura said, sucking on her cigarette.

  “Either way, there’s still the matter of my court appearance.” I waded back across the room to gather the dripping cardboard remains of the stand. “Where a judge will decide exactly how much of my soul I’m going to have to fork over to Maurice as compensation for ruining all his –” and at that, the sopping cardboard gave up hope and collapsed, folding into the water, leaving me holding Judy Garland’s severed head in one hand, the Tin Man’s in the other. “ – stock.” I laid their faces on the shelf and peeled off my pink marigolds and followed Laura back up the greasy steps to an empty shop that seemed to brood with unease. However this turned out to be principally due to Bernard Herrman who I’d left slicing his way through a Best of Hitchcock cassette on the stereo. I snapped it off, hoping the resultant quiet would be more settling.

  It wasn’t.

  “What about you?” I said anxiously. “You speak to Christopher last night? You tell him Andrew’s on board? Did he buy it?”

  “I spoke to him. Relax, it’s all –”

  “Relax? Right, right. Relax, she says. Sure. I’ve got a court appearance in six days, minus fifty grand in the bank, a basement full of soggy Munchkins and a wanted criminal standing in my shop. All this on November the tenth of all days.”

  “What’s November the tenth?”

  “I have absolutely no fucking idea. But my wife, whom I love, who is about to leave me because of my suspicious jittering, is going to have forty fits if I forget November tenth. Which I have. So, y’know, I’ll relax another time if that’s all right?”

  “That’s all right.”

  “What did Christopher say? Is he’s going to phone Andrew about borrowing the comic for his scam? The … what was it? Pigeon Drop?”

  Laura checked Elvis above me.

  “Is probably doing so as we speak. Think your friend will agree to the meet?”

  “He’ll agree. A little thing called trust. When’s the meeting scheduled?”

  “Noon.”

  “Today?!”

  “No sense in wasting time. Christopher’s going to tell him that we’ve a big score in place. He’s using this fair of yours on Friday in fact,” and she reached into her newspaper and peeled out the faded, crumpled Earl’s Court flyer I’d given her in my sitting room sixteen long days ago. “Adds a little credibility don’t you think? Dealers? Collectors? He’ll tell Andrew that we have a mark ready to bite but Henry’s dropped out at the last minute and we need an emergency bait.”

  “Which is when Andrew’s supposed to offer the use of my –”

  The phone jangled on the counter suddenly. Hands twitchy, I licked my lips and picked up the handset.

  “Heroes Incorporated?”

  “It’s me,” Andrew said. “Were you trying to call old fellow? I’ve been in with my bosses. It’s all bloody gone knackers up. O’Shea’s threatening … Oh I don’t know what his bloody problem is. You’d think an agent had never … He’s an idiot. I never should have got involved.”

  “Andrew –”

  “Plus I’m standing here trying to reassure everyone of the firm’s professionalism in a shirt three sizes too small because the bloody hotel screwed up my dry cleaning again.”

  “That him?” Laura asked. “Has Christopher called?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Huh? It’s Laura. She’s here with me. Have you spoken to Christopher?”

  “Put him on speaker,” Laura said. I jabbed the button and replaced the receiver. Andrew crackled, tinny and distant.

  “Just now. He wants to meet me at noon. Embankment station, rear carriage, westbound District line of all places. And you were right. Said he wants to discuss something discreet.”

  “Get there early. Eleven forty-five. I’ll meet you on the platform,” Laura said. “I’ve got a microphone you can wear. I’ll listen in from the next carriage and get it all on tape.”

  “I’ve got to go. O’Shea is demanding my personal assurance that … Actually, in truth I don’t know what he wants. Forget it. Eleven forty-five. Embankment. Westbound District line.”

  “Tape?” I said, hanging up. “For the police?”

  “Barrister says the more evidence I’ve
got the better. Plus I’m not leaving this Andrew of yours alone with Christopher without knowing exactly what’s being said. Right now I don’t trust anybody.” Laura stubbed out her cigarette in my Betty Boop ashtray. “It’s just possible Christopher’s spoken to a barrister. Or Henry has. Or Julio. Or any of them. Could be the cops are setting me up. Plus, how do I know Christopher didn’t swing by Andrew’s hotel room last night after I left? Offer you a sweeter package?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Right. So you say.”

  “God. Quite a life you’ve carved out for yourself here,” I said. “You trust anybody?”

  “Just me. Which can get lonely for a girl.”

  “Which is why you want out.”

  Laura hoisted her bag to her shoulder.

  “You’ll be here when we’re done?” she asked, flicking her hair from her sunglasses.

  “Done – ? Are you joking? I’m coming with you.”

  “With – ? No you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “Oh no you’re not.”

  “And as much as I hate to turn this into a panto –”

  “You’re not. You stay here and dry your Munchkins. It’s too dangerous. What if Christopher sees you?”

  “What if he sees you?”

  “He won’t see me, honey. I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  “Good. Then as long as I stand behind you, I’ll be fine.”

  “Neil –”

  “No. I’m not letting you out of my sight until Christopher and the rest are in custody and I have my daughter’s future and the trust of my wife back.” I grabbed my jacket from my chair and snatched up my keys. “Let’s go.” By twenty to twelve I was paying the cab driver and scuttling after Laura, weaving through the tourists, through the thud-hiss of the barriers and down to Embankment’s westbound platform.

  It was busy. Under sickly yellow light, loud gaggles of Europeans in rustling anoraks clustered about tiny maps, laughs echoing off the clean white tiles. The dot matrix board rolled around announcing arrivals, every three minutes another grimy train sighing in and out. Doors rolled and thudded, slicks of hassled commuters spilling among us.

  I followed Laura to the far end of the platform where the crowd thinned to a couple of lone men.

  “Here,” she said, dumping her bag. She began to rummage, leaving me to pace and skitter and twitch like one of the many pigeons on the platform opposite.

  “Could it be this one?” I whispered, reading the indicator board. “Going to Richmond. One minute?”

  “He won’t be here until precisely noon.”

  “Might he be early?”

  “He won’t be early.”

  “What if he’s early?”

  “Neil?”

  “Sorry.” I shoved my hands in my pockets and shuffled over to Laura. She was perched on the bench, unrolling the broadsheet paper on her lap, revealing a small sandwich of that bobbly camera-case foam. Lifting off the top half, the sandwich filling turned out to be an iPod-sized black box, a tangle of thin black wire, a fresh pack of batteries and a big fat fountain pen chunky enough to have been stolen from my bank by three men with a flat-bed truck.

  Behind me, a train burst into the station with a loud blare making me give a startled jibber.

  “Make yourself useful,” and Laura handed me the batteries and the black box. “Careful.”

  “What’s this?” The box was plastic, edged with flat black switches, a headphone socket and the head of a telescopic radio-antenna.

  “The receiver. Change the batteries.”

  Heart thumping, I fumbled with the plastic packaging, throwing

  the batteries all over the floor.

  “Stop mucking about,” Laura scowled as I scurried about in a

  crouch. “Now how much do you know about this Andrew?”

  “Know?”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “University,” I said, gathering up the final battery and slipping

  them one by one into the casing. The platform clock read eleven

  forty-nine. No Andrew.

  “He said in the restaurant he did something with property?”

  Laura was carefully, with nimble fingers, unspooling the thin black

  wire.

  “He does,” I said, one eye on the clock. It was eleven minutes

  to. “Works for some New York firm. Glorified estate agents. He’s

  over here trying to get a promotion. God where is he?”

  Laura took the receiver from me, plugging in the earphone

  wire and extending the antenna. She checked her watch.

  “He misses this appointment, we’re screwed. Christopher doesn’t

  trust a mark who won’t do as he’s told.”

  “He’ll be here, he’ll be here,” I said. Eight minutes to noon.

  “Do you know why today’s important by the way? Yom Kippur?

  Ramadan? Jane thinks I’ve forgotten.”

  “You have forgotten.”

  “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

  A train rolled in. A train rolled out. Christ, c’mon.

  I paced, eyes flipping from the matrix board to the platform

  steps, back and forth.

  Six minutes to.

  “I’ve been through my diary,” I whittered. “No birthdays, no

  anniversaries …”

  “Here we go, this could be him.”

  A train rolled in, a train rolled out.

  Four minutes.

  “C’mon old pal. C’mon.”

  Three minutes.

  A train rolled in, Andrew fell out.

  “Jesus Christ,” Laura hissed. “In your own time.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Andrew panted. He was breathing fast, face pink, not helped by his ill-fitting shirt. “O’Shea’s accused Keatings of embezzling.”

  “Embezzling?”

  “I know. Because we’re holding on to his New York profit for three days before his London purchase goes through on Friday.”

  “Isn’t that standard practice?”

  “Exactly! That’s what we said. Standard practice. But no. He’s back there now flapping about loss of interest. What does he think we’re going to do with it in three days? Take it to the bloody dog track?” He shook a hassled head. “How much time we got here?”

  The indicator board showed a District Line train due in three minutes.

  “Stick this in your top pocket,” Laura said hurriedly, handing Andrew the fountain pen. He took it, giving it the once over.

  “This looks familiar,” he hummed. “Didn’t I sign that validation yesterday with this?”

  “Very observant,” Laura said, double checking the receiver. “It has a miniature condenser mic in the lid. For all your covert surveillance needs. Sends a signal to me in the next carriage,” and she waggled the black box. “Twist the cap until it clicks.”

  Andrew did so, a tiny red LED snapping into life on the receiver.

  “That’s it. Radio Free Europe.”

  The next train on platform four will be your westbound District Line train via Earl’s Court.

  “Hello?” Andrew spoke into the pen. “Hello hello?”

  “Gotcha,” Laura said, pressing the earpiece in tight with a finger.

  “Where’s Superman?” I asked quickly.

  “It’s okay. The hotel has it in the safe. Don’t worry old man, I explained how fragile it was. They’ve got plenty of facilities and insurance. It’s safe.”

  “Right,” Laura said, tucking the receiver into the folds of her broadsheet and closing it gently. “I’ll move down a couple of carriages –”

  “We,” I interjected. They both looked at me. “We’ll move down a couple of carriages.” I felt a little like they were playing a playground James Bond and I was being sidelined into the Moneypenny role somewhat.

  “Fine. We’ll be just down here. Keep that on, in your top pocket. Get him to sit on your left if you can, but don’t ma
ke it

  obvious.”

  The train burst into the station.

  “The train on platform four …” the tannoy squelched. “Is your

  westbound District Line train …”

  “Don’t forget. Be greedy, be eager. In fact insist he lets you play

  a part in the drop,” Laura hissed quickly, shoving me away with

  her up the platform. “But y’know, not too greedy or too eager or

  too insistent.”

  We stumbled up a carriage or two, leaving Andrew wide eyed

  and alone on the platform, blinking like a lost child, lips mumbling

  as he mentally prepared a tone that suggested a non-greedy

  greediness and an un-insistent insistency.

  Laura gripped my arm, head bowed into her chest and finger

  in her ear as the train slowed to a stop. After a sickening second,

  the doors hissed, rolling open with a thud. Laura hauled me on

  and I turned quickly, giving Andrew a last quick thumbs-up before

  he climbed aboard.

  The doors shut behind us, Laura pulling me down low into a

  corner seat.

  “Well?”

  Finger pressed in her ear, a small smile slid across Laura’s face.

  “Got them,” she said. “Hold tight.”

  The train rolled out of the station.

  twenty-three

  “What’s he saying? What’s he saying?”

  “Shhhh, for God’s sake, I can’t … He’s giving Andrew the Marmeladov bit. Experience tells me you are a man of education, unhabituated to the beverage. All that.”

  “He did that to me, what is that?”

  “Crime & Punishment. He knows it by heart.”

  “The whole book?”

  “The whole, shhh, wait …”

  The lunchtime train rocked and rattled through the darkness, grey pipes shimmying past, tunnel lights whisping by like ghosts. Around us, passengers stood, passengers sat, lost in their own worlds. Slapping tabloids, wrestling with broadsheets, texting, eating, sleeping.

  Crammed in a corner like socks in a suitcase, Laura and I sat low, chins in our chests. She had one finger pressed tight in her ear, the other over her earphone leaving me to squirm, fidgety and apprehensive.