Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Where the comic? Where the money? Where our facking haul ?!” Julio was yelling, whirling about the street. “What HE doing here?! What the fack going ON?!”

  “We gotta go! Julio. Julio! We gotta go!” Grayson was at the van door, all traces of his accent gone.

  “But –”

  “NOW!” Grayson bellowed. “Look around you! Focus. FOCUS! We have to go!”

  “The Atlas pub,” Laura was saying quickly, pacing. “Seagrove Road. Earl’s Court. It’s just … it’s just a wound I think but I can’t stop the bleeding. Hurry. Please hurry.”

  “We have to go!” Grayson bellowed again.

  Julio spun, taking in the bloody scene, sticky footprints leaving panicky circles on the pavement like macabre dance instructions.

  “Neil –” Andrew gasped, grabbing my leg and my attention tight. I knelt down quickly, eyes on his. This was bad. Oh this was very bad. “Neil I’m sorry –”

  “Don’t talk. Benno, don’t talk,” I said, sniffing, wiping stinging eyes, throat tight. “It’s going to be all right. We’ve got an ambulance coming.” I looked up with panic at Laura. She nodded, face torn with grief. “It’s fine. You did great, old friend. Hang in there.”

  In the gutter, Christopher gave a moan, head rolling against the brick, bloody bubbles popping on his lips.

  A phone was still ringing somewhere.

  “We can’t leave Christopher,” Julio said, hurrying to the kerb side. “Laura? Laura, leave him. Help me get Christopher into van. Help me.”

  “Fuck you,” Laura scowled. “Fuck you all.”

  “Are you out of your –”

  “Forget her!” Grayson screamed. He clambered into the van, slamming the door with a rusty bang. “We’ve got to go! Keys! Give me the keys! Move! Fucking MOVE!”

  “I … I did great old friend …” Andrew said woozily in her lap, eyes rolling.

  Julio roared, spinning, tossing the keys to Grayson and leaping over Christopher’s still body. He clambered into the van’s passenger seat. Half inside, Grayson threw it forward with a squeal, whirling around in a wide circle, scraping parked cars with a teeth-grinding shriek before gunning off fast down the quiet street and away.

  “Andrew,” I said in the quiet, breathing deep, holding his cold hands tight. “Andrew listen to me. It’s all right. Shhhh, it’s all right.”

  “I … oww, ahh, shit, I screwed it up …”

  “No,” I pleaded, squeezing his hand. “No. You did good. It’s me, I …”

  “The bags … arrghh Jesus!” and he screwed up his face, eyes tight, teeth bared, the pain knifing his sides. “It all happened … lost the bags …”

  “Shhhh, we got the bags, we got the bags …” Laura hushed, stroking Andrew’s sweat-sopped fringe from his pale face.

  A phone still called out, over and over.

  “Bags?” I said, head spinning. In all the horror, I hadn’t even dreamed that –

  Laura knelt up a little, Andrew’s head bouncing and wincing in her lap. She soothed an apology, sliding from beneath her a battered satchel and a sliver attaché case.

  “First thing I grabbed,” she said, a timid smile playing over her frightened face. “You did great.”

  “What’s …” I said, ear cocked, trying to focus. “What’s that ringing?”

  “That’s … that’s for me … I’ve got …” Andrew began to mumble, trying to twist around.

  “Jesus! Jesus no, no!” Laura yelped, wet red lines seeping between her fingers. “He’s tearing it. He’s tearing the wound. Andrew!”

  “The phone …” he croaked dreamily.

  “I-I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” I said, reaching under his sweat-soaked jeans and tearing at his pockets, pulling out everything I could find – cigarettes, a Zippo, matches, penknife, fountain pen, breath mints, an old Bic and finally at last the handset, his red notebook stuck to the plastic with blood.

  “That … that son of a bitch,” Laura was spitting. “Stupid son of a bitch Julio didn’t understand the change of plan. Thought Christopher was trying to tell him to add a target.”

  I smeared the blood from the screen. O’Shea.

  Oh God.

  “Phone keeps cutting out? His fucking brain keeps cutting out. Neil? Shhh, it’s all right. Ambulance is on its way. Five minutes. You’re all right. Neil?”

  “It’s O’Shea,” I said, panic rising. “Benno’s got this deal. He’s meant to be completing some big deal …”

  “Tell O’Shea –” Andrew gasped, face pale and scared.

  “Neil, I need you to hold this. He’s losing a lot of blood …”

  The phone still ringing in my hand, I knelt slowly to my best friend’s side, a cold claw of horror gripping my gut.

  “Old … Old stick,” Andrew croaked, grabbing my sleeve hard, hauling himself up an inch. He had blood on his lips and teeth.

  “Benno. Oh God, mate I –”

  “They … they can’t know …” Andrew winced, eyes tight, grabbing at the phone.

  “Shhhh,” Laura soothed. “The ambulance is coming. Shhh. It’s all right. Neil will take care of it. Business can wait …”

  But kneeling there in Andrew’s blood, the phone calling out, calling out, I knew on this day of all days, business couldn’t wait. The phone kept ringing. Somewhere, Andrew’s future – his wife’s future, the future of the Artic Circle – drummed its fingers, twiddled its thumbs, refilled its coffee and checked its watch with a tut.

  “Shit,” I said. “I’ve got … I’ve got to take this.”

  “They can’t …” Andrew hissed, breathing short and tight, reaching out to me.

  “Shit,” I said again. “Don’t … don’t worry old friend, I’ve got it covered. I’ve … I’ve got it covered,” and I swallowed hard, stood up and thumbed open the line.

  Fifteen minutes later, I sat bouncing, scared and tearful in the back of a black cab, hemmed in by King’s Road traffic. On the seat next to me lay a silver attaché case full of my daughter’s money. On top of that, within a tired, blood-caked satchel, behind its protective sleeve, a fading seventy-year-old Superman held a car aloft above his head. In my trembling, bloodied fingers was a scrap of paper. Torn moments ago from Andrew’s sodden red notebook, it was scrawled with numbers and names. Clamped under my chin, I had Andrew’s lifeline.

  “I’m sorry, who is this?” the phone crackled.

  “A friend. I-I’m a friend of Mr Benjamin’s. An old friend. Please –”

  “And you say he can’t come to the phone?”

  “He’s told me …” My mind thudded. “He’s doing a deal for a man named O’Shea? An important deal? Something in Holborn?”

  “Where is Mr Benjamin now?”

  Up ahead, the traffic began to clear and the cab moved forward a few feet, which was more than I could say for the situation on the telephone.

  “He’s … Look please, I just need to know how I can complete this deal for him. It’s very important. He’s wiring across some money or something? From a new account?”

  “One moment please,” the voice said and the on-hold music came back.

  Teeth gritted, I checked my chunky watch, as the cab slid forward another few feet.

  It was five past eleven. The ambulance would be there by now. Paramedics tending to him.

  Please God, I prayed silently. Save him.

  “Hello? To whom am I speaking?”

  “What? Sorry. My name is Neil Martin. I was telling your colleague –”

  “Did you say Mr Benjamin is unable to complete the telegraphic transfer as stipulated? When did you speak with him?”

  “He …”

  I jumped at the blare of siren behind me, rearview mirror flashing with blue light. In front, the gridlocked traffic began to shuffle, edging, inching apart, sliding sideways.

  “Hold on,” I said to the phone, the cabbie heaving left all the inches he could spare.

  “Hello? Hello?” the phone squawked. “Hello?”

  �
�Sorry, there was … it doesn’t matter. Look, Mr Benjamin is aware of how important it is that this deal goes ahead and I need to make sure it does. He’s given me some figures. Hello?” I shoved my finger in my ear as the ambulance weaved slowly through the traffic past me, siren screaming, edging between Chelsea’s vans and 4×4s. I flapped the sheet of notepaper. “Eighteen, twenty, fifteen, then what looks like forty … forty million, a hundred and –”

  “What you have isn’t … Look, we need to speak to Mr Benjamin. When is he likely to be free Mr … ?”

  “Martin,” I said, watching the ambulance disappear among the throng of traffic up ahead.

  “Mr Martin, I’m not certain you understand the complexity of this situation. Without Mr Benjamin’s written authorisation, clearance codes and password, the money simply can’t move from the account.”

  “But …”

  “Until Mr Benjamin calls into the office, the deal is suspended and the relevant contractual penalties will be incurred by Mr O’Shea. I strongly urge Mr Benjamin to contact this office immediately.”

  I snapped my phone closed and hurled it bouncing to the vinyl beside me.

  “Here,” I called to the cabbie. “Left here. Please, as fast as you can.”

  The cab circled, sending me sliding across the bench, and we accelerated, gunning down Chelsea Park Gardens. It was down here.

  Andrew’s only hope was down here somewhere.

  My ugly watch said eleven minutes past eleven.

  By twenty-five to twelve, Andrew’s only hope was juddering beneath an oiled ancestor in his first floor study, fat hand clamped about that favourite peaty scotch of his. Trembling, knees bouncing, I sat on the edge of a huge leather armchair, dabbing my punctured nose tentatively with a heavy, monogrammed handkerchief, trying not to get blood on the rug.

  “Well,” Edward sighed, looking into his glass. I blinked back silently. “Well,” he said again.

  “Yes,” I squeaked, swallowing hard.

  Somewhere down the hall, a grandfather clock tutted.

  “Well well,” he said again. “Quite a story.”

  Hot-cheeked and shamed, I opted for silence.

  “And where is he now?”

  “Andrew or Christopher?”

  “Both.”

  “Christopher, I don’t know. Shot in the chest. He looked … well he wasn’t moving when I left. There was blood …” My throat dried, lips sticking to my teeth. “I don’t know. Guess the police’ll have it all fenced off. Laura was waiting for the ambulance with Andrew,” I said. “She thinks it’s just a wound but he’s in a bad way.”

  “Laura being who I caught you with that day on the Underground, I assume? Who did you say she was then?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said.

  “A collector, I believe you said,” Edward harrumphed. “A collector. Which is what I informed my daughter.”

  “Jane knows?”

  “I gave her enough information for her to make her own mind up. She covered for you of course. Said you met a lot of collectors. Not many leggy female ones though. That surprised her.”

  “I didn’t know what else to tell you. I was trying to clear everything up. Put it right. I hoped –”

  “What you hoped is that you’d get away with this insulting, criminal charade, lad. That’s what you hoped. That you could weasel your way out of your infantile mess and that no one would be any the wiser. Treated me, treated my family, like fools.”

  “I was just trying –”

  “Oh save it. Save it for the judge. You’re no liar, young man. You’re no liar, just as you are no businessman.”

  I sat in silence.

  “I mean …” Edward spluttered. “I mean good God boy, what were you thinking? Bar-rooms and blood-bags? This isn’t the movies! This is my family!”

  I looked up into a fat face of ruddy loathing.

  “What were you thinking, boy, hmm?”

  Lovely boy, Mowgli, lovely boy, a-hnn hnn hnn.

  “If it’s any – sorry,” I croaked, “If it’s any consolation, that’s what my father wanted to know too.”

  “Your fa – ? Well,” and Edward rocked back in his little brogues, shaking his head. “I might have known he’d be involved somewhere.” He placed his tumbler on his desk. “What is it with your family, eh? Eh?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Edward,” I said. “Edward, my oldest friend is –” and I stumbled, voice cracking, words thick in my throat. I scowled, angry, trying to frighten them out. “My oldest friend has been shot and it’s my fault. My fault. I dropped Julio’s phone and broke the battery, which meant Julio didn’t get the –”

  Edward just stared at me, fat, wet eyes glassy and cold. Plump lip curled just so.

  “Christ, look, look I’ve … God, look, what do you want from me? Huh? I’ve tried to be a good man. Yes, even with my upbringing. Be a good husband to your daughter. A good father to your grandchild …”

  Edward shifted a little in his tight tweed, topping up his glass.

  “I have tried doing it your way. Truly I have. Jane will tell you. Shrewwwd. Killer instinct, dog eat dog, all that. But it’s not me. It’s not my way. I just … I’m never going to be the millionaire polo player you want for a son-in-law, Edward. And I don’t want to be. I just want …” I took a big breath, grinding my jaw against tears. “I just want to be a good husband. A good father. That’s it. And yes,” I looked down at the worn study rug. “Yes, I took stupid pride too far. I tried to manage too much by myself. I should have come clean about my screw-ups, instead of taking these insane measures to correct them alone …”

  “Indeed,” Edward murmured. “You’re due in court when?”

  “Monday. Three o’clock,” I said. “But it’s all, all this, it’s only ever been to be the husband your daughter deserves. The father your grand-daughter deserves. And in trying to put things right, yes, again, I’ve screwed up. Screwed up huge.”

  “Putting it mildly.”

  “But this time,” I looked up at him. “I’ve come to you for help. Because it’s more than just your idiot son-in-law now. Andrew …” but I had nothing more to say. I hung my head.

  “Where’s Lana’s trust fund now? The comic book? Tell me you’ve at least –”

  “They’re all there,” I sighed, waving a hand at the case and satchel on his desk. Edward put down his heavy tumbler and moved to the blotter. He clicked on the green lamp, peering at the locks before snapping them open. He lifted the lid, perusing the contents.

  A long thoughtful while passed.

  “So you’ve everything back that you lost? Something, at least.”

  “Everything of mine’s back, yes.”

  “Meaning – ?”

  “Andrew’s family. They might be minus a …” and the world began to collapse about me. Throat closing, hard and tight, a fat wave of guilt and grief rolling, growing, crashing like the sea against my heart. I swallowed, once, twice, nauseous, breathing deep, head low.

  “C’mon lad. Enough of that. You’re being depended on. What’s this friend, this Andrew, what’s he given you? Numbers, you said?”

  Limp and wrecked, I handed him the crumpled paper, blood-stained and sweaty.

  “They said something about a telegraph … something?”

  “Hmn. Telegraphic transfer. These look like account details. How much are these developers expecting to agree completion?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s that or it doesn’t go through and –”

  “And if I know firms like this, that’ll be your friend out on his ear. This character?”

  “O’Shea.”

  “O’Shea. He’ll see to that. Hmn. They’ll be stung with a hefty penalty for every hour after the deadline that passes too. A cost your friend will be expected to pick up.” Edward sighed. “You trust this chap?”

  “Andrew? With my life. With … with more than my life. I owe him …”

  I looked up at Edward.

>   He may as well hear it. He may as well hear it all.

  “We met at University,” I said. I had a small glass of Edward’s scotch, and I swum it around idly, watching the light play in the amber. “Same halls. Didn’t have much in common really but … I dunno, we gravitated together. Same outlook, attitude I guess. Same … well, turns out the same taste in First Years.”

  “Jane?”

  “Jane.” I was breathing deep and slow, trying to steady my heart. “We both … noticed? Is that the word? Doesn’t seem … Well, we noticed your daughter. But we didn’t mention her. Not to each other. Talked about everything else, but not … Says a lot I suppose. It was how Andrew was when she was around. When we were out as three. See, we got chatting in halls. Over chess. Three of us. We kind of all buddied up, but … Fact is, I fell for her immediately. Didn’t say much to Andrew. Didn’t want to make it awkward. Make him feel like a gooseberry, y’know? But Jane and I started seeing each other when Andrew wasn’t around.”

  I swallowed hard, head flooding with memories in the little study.

  “He was a good-looking guy, though. Andrew. I never understood why he wasn’t snapped up by someone else. But the three of us still hung out, all through the second year, all through the third year, Jane and I seeing each other … not on the sly, because we were both single. Andrew wasn’t … But it was awkward.”

  “Awkward?”

  “I’d found poems he’d written about her, hidden away. It was pretty clear. Put me in a difficult position.”

  “To do the right thing by a friend.”

  “Right, right,” I nodded. “Anyway … Christmas. Third year. Night of the ball. We’re all in tuxedos and smoking cigars and swapping hip flasks. All the girls showing shoulders and wearing heels and the whole bit. I’ve had a little mulled wine and I decide I’m going to propose to your daughter.”

  “Drunk?” Edward harrumphed.

  “Dutch courage,” I said. “But I know what that’s going to do to the three of us. No keeping that secret. So I drop by Andrew’s room and he’s got candles lit. Listening to Jona Lewie and fixing his cufflinks. Little CND signs I think. From a velvet box on his desk. And I tell him I have something I need to get off my chest. And he says he does too.”