Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “Most people?”

  “Whereas Whittington? You wouldn’t dream of swindling him, correct? You, Neil Martin, like most, have decided to treat the world depending on how it treats you first. With either contempt or courtesy depending on whether it’s a Rudy or a Whittington. Good, good,” and with a smile and a twinkle and a little nod, that seemed to be that. He clicked his finger to beckon over our waiter, whom I watched as he bowed smartly and wafted off for the sweet trolley. When my eyes fell back on the table, a stiff brown envelope had appeared between us.

  “To beeswax then,” Whittington said. “I require, as I mentioned at the outset, your help. If you will, a hand. I have in my possession –” and he paused, weighing the words, placing two flat palms on the envelope, “an item of interest.”

  I licked my lips.

  “Valuable?”

  “Bahh, schmaluable. The trick, poppet, is not in finding an item of value. But in finding a customer who values your item. But if this satisfies your curiosity, a short correspondence with a friendly gavel-wielder has fenced off a sterling ballpark of high six figures. But only if –”

  And he stopped mid flow, the waiter approaching the table, gliding a silver trolley across the rug. We sat in silence while he talked us through the spread in a clipped public school brogue, Whittington pointing at the cheesecake, which was sliced and served. The waiter wheeled off and Whittington resumed.

  “… if waved about in a room full of the right people, of course. Mmmn, dig in dear fellow.”

  “Can I ask what it is?” I munched.

  “What it is, old chum, is for sale. Which is where I’m hoping Neil Martin and his Brigstock Place emporia de retrograde might come in. Mmmn! Didn’t I tell you? This cheesecake is to die for. I shouldn’t really,” Whittington said, licking his lips and delving in again, “but I had to. A man called Grayson – dealer like you – told me if I was ever here I was to try it.”

  “You want me to display this thing in my shop?”

  Whittington continued to munch.

  “Where I guarantee it will be snapped up within hours. Now, naturally I wouldn’t … mmn this biscuit, dreamy. Naturally I wouldn’t expect you to do this for nothing, little chum. So what do you say? What’s fair?”

  My heart began to thud, hope rising in my chest. I concentrated on my fork, slippy in a clammy grip.

  “Shall we say, what? Twenty per cent of whatever you can get for it? How’s your dessert by the way? Isn’t it divine?”

  Well I mean. The dessert might have been divine. Or it might have been turds and biscuits. At that point, my head was suddenly, and rather understandably, elsewhere. It took all my self-control, in fact, not to snatch his little silver pen and that little black book of his, jump onto the table-top and dance around in a circle doing the maths right then and there. My father had been right. A lucky turn, a lucky streak, call it what you like. Things were on the up.

  Whittington continued to witter on about having happily ascertained my character as a professional and whatnot, but I tell you, I wasn’t taking it in. Twenty per cent of a high six-figure sum. We were talking a hundred grand. A hundred grand, minimum! For hanging whatever the hell it was in my window. A hundred grand?! My feet were dancing, my face trying to control a big goofy grin, maths running through in my head – pay off the solicitors, pay back the bank, get the basement cleaned up. I could hear music playing suddenly.

  The theme to The Archers, as a matter of fact.

  Yep, you heard me. Deet da-deet-da tum-ti-tum. The bloody Archers.

  Whittington put down his fork and reached under his newspaper, sliding out a book of matches, an oily Zippo lighter, a small penknife, a fountain pen and finally a small silver mobile phone. The tinny theme was louder suddenly. I felt other diners glancing our way.

  “Apologies apologies,” he said, thumbing it open. “A-hoy hoy?” A frown scuttled across his brow. “Hmn, where should we … let’s see,” and Whittington flipped to the back of his notebook where a list was written in a neat blue hand. “The Clarendon I did yesterday,” and he crossed out a name. “Claridge’s I’m at as we speak, so it’s … yes. There’s a little Italian place on Brewer Street. Con Panna. I find public places more private. What time shall we say?”

  I thought this a good time to excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I needed to splash myself with cold water. To walk, to dance. Needed the opportunity to drop to my knees and scream worshipful thanks to the patron saint of lucky escapes. St Jammy of Dodger, or whoever.

  I left Whittington to his call.

  Stood among the glistening tile and gleaming brass of Claridge’s gents, I breathed long and slow, releasing the best part of a half bottle of ninety-nine Latour against the porcelain.

  A hundred grand.

  My stupid face grinned back at me in the pale reflection of the polished wall. And well it should. The disaster was averted, the crisis passed.

  If I’m honest about it, in the huge tide of relief that sunny afternoon, the biggest and most refreshing waves were those washing in from Chelsea. Specifically, from a large five-bedroomed house off the King’s Road.

  See, I knew what Jane’s father thought of me. Unsurprisingly I suppose, as he made almost no effort whatsoever to hide it. When Jane fell pregnant for example. He’d exploded in a spray of cigars and tankards, which Edward’s type always does. The family line and all that.

  However, when the dreaded ‘daughter’ word was eventually wheeled into his Chelsea Park Gardens study? Oh the glare. The blame. Me and my plebby working-class sperm. All probably on strike or at the dog track the day they were called up for action.

  I had received the lecture. Me sat in one of his fat leather chairs, nursing a peaty scotch, Edward pacing under an oiled ancestor. I wasn’t to hesitate to come to him. Whatever his granddaughter needed, day or night, she’s not to go without, best of everything. On and on.

  But all the time I knew. I knew. And he knew I knew. I don’t know why he didn’t just say it. Son, you can’t support my daughter. So let’s speak man-to-man shall we?Well, man-to-scruffy-Nancy boy at any rate.

  No honestly, that’s his voice. I’m telling you, Windsor Davies playing Shere Khan.

  I’m well aware of your upbringing. Who your father was. What he did. So let’s not pretend shall we? I’ll help you buy your tatty shop. You do what you can with your posters and nick-nackery, but I’ll provide for Jane, as you probably expected me to anyway, eh? I’ve seen how your eyes prowl over this house. Now finish your drink and get out.

  So for the past month, well you can imagine can’t you? The fear of Jane’s dearest daddy finding out? It would have proved, in his whisky-addled mind at least, that he was right all along. And he would have been thrilled to hear about my fuck up. Not in front of Jane of course. No no, in front of Jane it would have been hand holding and chin-upping and there-there-ing. But afterwards? He’d have dined out on it for the rest of his life. Golf club, functions, board meetings. My idiot son-in-law, fwahh fwahh fwahh.

  But hell, that was the past. That afternoon, I was grinning. Heart light, bursting, floating like the last day of term. Because I knew I wasn’t going to have to hear it. I was going to return to the table, coffee and mints, sign a contract for twenty per cent commission, hang whatever this eccentric guy wanted hung in the window and be in the clear.

  In the clear.

  The only thing that did worry me slightly, as I zipped up and rinsed my hands in the bath-sized basin, was that my new business partner had yet to get around to giving me his real name.

  “Whittington? Oh, I see. No, no poppet, we must start as we mean to go on,” my host said, plucking a white card from his breast pocket and sliding it across the linen.

  “This is you?” I picked the card up. “J Peckard Scott? Motivational speaker?”

  “Less or more,” he said. “My vating is that of the motor-driven variety, yes. Geeing up, confidence boosts. I slap backs. Tell people what they want to hear. What’s interes
ting about the whole procedure of course,” he said, glugging my wine glass up another inch, “what your Watchdogs and your Daily Mails don’t realise is that innocent parties are never involved. Oh they like to suggest those we catch out are poor victims. Guilty only of being in the wrong place at the right time. But it’s drivel, of course. Imagine the logistics of picking marks at random. Poppycock. We’d spend all of our time laying out the game, telling the tale, putting him on the send, setting up the whole damned store, only to find he didn’t have any money, or he was too savvy, or too stupid. Nonsense, nonsense,” and he shook his head sadly. “It’s a myth. The likelihood of a hopscotching grifter just pouncing on a hapless innocent and fleecing him for his life savings are zero.”

  “Did you say grifter?” I didn’t much like the sound of where this monologue was going. Principally because it didn’t appear to be going anywhere we’d agreed on. In fact the whole lunch so far had something of the unlicensed minicab about it.

  I tried to get a handbrake on this conversation before he veered us both into a lamp post.

  “You said you have something you want me to sell …”

  “I need your help, Neil, that much is certain. This memorabilia lark isn’t what you’d call my field. Not my crop, not my farm. I’m on very muddy ground in fact and these aren’t even my wellies.”

  “You being a motivational speaker,” I said, to which Scott made a disconcerting nyeeahhh noise.

  “Let’s say I level the playing field Neil. I even things out. Assist the intelligent, the hardworking. Give them a step up. Which means, thanks to Newton, the lazy and stupid take a step down. But that’s fair isn’t it? I mean isn’t that what we all really want?” “Well I s’pose,” I said.

  “Anyhap, enough of that. We still on, what do you say? Still like to earn yourself an easy hundred grand or so?” and he picked up the envelope once again. “Of course you would. Because you deserve it, correct? You’re a hard workin’ man, tired of just getting by, I expect. Getting by while crooks and scroungers get to swank about in Essex mansions bedecked with sovereign rings. Hardly fair now is it? Which is why it’s only right, what you and I do. Evening out the score. Rewarding the hard-working, intelligent and gracious,” Scott turned the envelope in his small hands. “Punishing the lazy, rude and spoilt.”

  “What I do?”

  “In your little shop. The Siegel & Shuster photograph? No bidders yet I notice. I’d check your emails if I were you. Bound to have someone offering cash for a quick sale.”

  “Wait,” I said firmly, hand held up.

  “But don’t fret over it, sweetkins. After all, to some extent everyone acts as judge and jury on every soul they meet. Usually on nothing more than fleeting circumstantial evidence. Their shirt, their shoes. We at least –”

  “You.”

  “We give our defendants an opportunity to display their grace. A chance to state their case before we dish out a suitable sentence.”

  At which point I stopped him. I’d had just about enough of this. I can’t recall exactly what I said, being a little drunk at the time. Something like, stop, I’ve had just about enough of this I expect. I do recall I held a hand up like a traffic policeman which was unusually assertive of me. But frankly I wanted some answers. What was all this about?

  Scott waited. He took a swig of water. He waited some more. About? he said. Then, looking over my shoulder briefly, he fixed me with both eyes and told me. Quite calmly.

  Justice, dear boy.

  I blinked back at him. The restaurant paid neither his motive nor my blinking much attention.

  He said it again, something fluttering like a shadow across his demeanour.

  “Justice?” I queried, head thudding, “Sorry, I’m not sure I –”

  “Justice. Man’s to mete out and man’s alone. Who else will even the eternal score? God?” and he barked an angry laugh. “No no. There lies a long, cold, wormy wait for those hoping for judgement day, young Neil. No retribution is coming, no bearded magistrate waits in the wings to bang the almighty gavel.”

  “Justice for what?” I said. “You’ve been ripped off?”

  “Ripped off, ripped apart, ripped to pieces,” Scott said. The mood seemed to have shifted. “We all have been at some time. Ravaged, raped and ruined. Dreams crushed, guts torn out by a harsh, unfeeling world.” Scott’s jaw ground, bitter muscles bulging in his cheek. “Posit love, for example.”

  “You what?”

  “You love someone and they don’t love you back. Happens all the time. Your whole world for three aching lonely years. It’s destroying. Agreed? Observe the sentencing though. You are destroyed, they are not. You are dejected, they are not. Is that fair? Is that justice? Look at the crimes. My act is to see beauty in another and worship unconditionally. Their act is to reject this worship. To ignore, to pity and to condescend. But it is I who am sentenced to spend the rest of my days alone. While the one I love goes on, brushing the speckled lint of her guilt away with a laugh and a gesture.”

  I sat and listened.

  “The world we have created,” Scott said, sitting back a bit, chin up, “has scales tipped crazily off kilter. Good folk weep alone, sobbing at kitchen tables, heads full of their love’s face, the lonely night stretching out forever. And the selfish objects of their innocent desire?” He spat the word, spittle glistening on his lip. “Those who think they are better, are out laughing and drinking, sparing no one a thought but themselves. Now, Neil. In a world this crazy, someone must even out the score, don’t you think?”

  The table went quiet. I wiped clammy palms on my trousers, dizzied by the open wound of his confession.

  “And,” I said, my voice cracking. “S-Sorry. And this … this is why you do … whatever you do? Because of … a woman?”

  Eyes wet and weary, Scott looked at me solemnly for a beat.

  And then his face sagged, cracking a goofy grin.

  “Naaahh, not really,” he laughed loudly. “Ha! I do it for fun. Shits and giggles. No more than that.”

  “What? But – ?”

  “Tut-tut, Neil. Too many movies dear,” he smiled, leaning over and tapping me one-two-three on my forehead with a firm index finger. “That’s your problem. Things aren’t always about things, Neil. There’s no convenient back-story to people. And why should there be?”

  “You –”

  “I mean bally jove, nobody goes looking for a shark’s back-story, do they? To find out what went on in his childhood that made him a killing machine.”

  “We’re not sharks,” I said, angry, confused and not a little bit drunk.

  “Ahh, but do you know why, though? The only reason I am not a shark is that my mummy and daddy weren’t sharks. That’s all. The only reason you aren’t a shark is that Mr & Mrs Martin happened not to be sharks. Now, you going to let that itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot quirk of fate cost you your business? Your home? Cost you …” and he paused. He looked at me. “Your family?”

  The whole sumptuous room seemed to lurch slightly, like it was trying to pull out at a busy junction. Scott began twiddling the envelope in front of him. My better judgement nudged my back bumper, tooting.

  But I stayed where I was.

  “What do you know about my family?”

  “Well Zilch McGrew, as a matter of fact,” Scott shrugged, “but I know something about people. I know, for example Neil, that young men with thriving businesses, savings tucked away and a bank manager they play golf with, tend not, by and large, to go to lunch with peculiar-acting men. That’s more the behaviour of the desperate, wouldn’t you say?”

  I blinked at him, keeping him focused.

  He went on, as I rather feared he might, turning the envelope slowly.

  “More the behaviour of a man in need of a quick fix. A one-off, chance of a lifetime deal, that’ll get him out of whatever unfortunate hole he’s stumbled into. Coffee?”

  four

  I should have left. I don’t know why I didn’t. But I sh
ould have.

  Though actually –

  Actually no, I know exactly why I didn’t. It’s because – and I’m aware of how stupid this sounds – it’s because I hadn’t seen inside the envelope yet.

  It was there, inches away, and it had something in it of value otherwise what was all this about? And hell, it’s not like we’d done anything wrong. We were just two guys. Just two guys talking. So I let him order coffee. And I told myself, a coffee, a look in the envelope then go.

  Just for curiosity’s sake.

  Coffee, envelope, go.

  “Picture this if you might,” Scott said, fine crockery now between us. “You’re out walking one lunchtime and you spot something valuable in the street.” He had sat back and was turning the envelope in his fingers. “Say … a gold watch. Like this one,” and from the side of the table, Scott’s foot slid out quickly. Lifting his brown brogue, he revealed beneath it a heavy-looking gold watch. He returned his foot to under the table. The watch remained where it was, curled on the carpet.

  “Naturally,” Scott said, “you bend to pick it up.”

  I looked at the watch, lying there. I looked up at Scott.

  “Well, go on then,” he said.

  Hesitantly, feeling this was the first in what might turn out to be a long line of regrettable moves, I leant over to retrieve the watch from the floor, when Scott suddenly lunged for it gruffly, the table clattering. He grabbed it up with a snarl of Mine!

  Startled, I looked up and Rudy’s greasy hat was back, along with his character it seemed.

  “Now I’m a fuckin’ tramp, arn’ I,” Scott drawled, face low among the wine glasses and coffee cups. “Didn’ see me lurkin’ in a doorway did ya? See, I spotted this watch too. Juss as you did. An’ I wanna pawn it, sharpish. Get m’self a few beers wiv’ dis li’l beauty I bet. Look at it shoine,” and he curled it in the lamplight. “Rolex an’ all. Heavy. Bet we could get two ’undred nicker for it, eh? Whaddya say mate?”