Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “You see this?” I said, suddenly rather cross, striding up the shop and clattering out through the door to the freezing street. I pointed up at the fading shop sign. “It says Heroes Incorporated. It doesn’t say, and here’s maybe where you’re getting confused, Boots the Chemist.”

  Christopher smiled a little, his pipe bobbing.

  I stomped back in, slamming the door with a crash.

  Christopher didn’t even blink.

  “Now then. My father always told me the secret of a good shave was to be generous with my lather. Take time with it. Remember why it’s there. To soften the beard. Warm it and wet it, loosen its hold. Help the razor do its job.”

  The shop sat quietly. On the wall, Elvis said five past three. There were no sounds from the office, save the distant lazy murmur of the Sunday radio.

  “Neil?” Christopher said. He was waiting for me to look at him. I held on for a moment, just to show this was still my territory. And then looked at him.

  His face seemed to have softened slightly, like he’d been over-doing the lather himself.

  “We don’t think Grayson is ready to be shaved yet,” he said, removing his pipe. “Oh we’ve got his face wet. Perhaps even a little warm. But this particular shave is going to be very close and very quick. In the chair, one swipe, and then he’s back on the street.”

  The other three men began to emerge from the office through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be a threaten ing mob.

  “If we sit him down and he isn’t ready? That’s it. Nothing we can do. We just wind up with a load of blood on our towels.”

  I swallowed, tasting green and sick about my mouth.

  “Someone has to apply the final lather.”

  Grayson looked just like his picture. As I expected he would.

  Through the stark flat echo of Arrivals, through the clatter and chatter of tourists, students and wintering families he appeared, waddling and puffing.

  The hat was in attendance – one of those plasticy trucker baseball caps. A mesh back and a foamy front, this one blue, emblazoned with the red and yellow Superman insignia. He was in a crumpled cotton jacket, polyester-looking slacks and the obligatory box-white trainers.

  Weebling and weaving sweatily through the slalom of holdalls, skis and suitcases, tiny eyes blinking, he fished into his bag for what looked like a ticket wallet. His bag was the tourist type, not quite a handbag, not quite a satchel. It was black leather with gold clasps and buckles, about the size of a hardback book, slung on a twisted leather strap over his shoulder so it sat high between his flabby breasts.

  From my position, skulking behind Dale Carnegie, secreted between the scrum of awaiting families and the bored sighs of taxi-drivers, I stepped back slowly, edging towards a pillar until he passed me with a whiff of aeroplane sweat, not six feet away, paying me no attention, pulling his wheelie case behind him and wobbling off towards the exit.

  Heart thundering, mind racing a mile-a-minute, I waited. Grayson was receding slowly, couples and crowds milling between us. The clock above the exit read 17:27. I had a brief image of Edward’s furious features in his Chelsea study. Apologising to his accountant. Phoning Jane in a rage.

  No time for that now.

  I took a deep breath and set off, watching Grayson’s blue mesh cap bob away across the echoing concourse. I had no idea if I was following him correctly, of course. Do you hang back? Stay close? Who knows? My only frame of reference being mid-period Hitchcock, I was tempted to buy a felt fedora and a large newspaper with eyeholes cut in it. But for a short greedy fat man, Grayson was waddling at some pace so there was little time for that sort of thing.

  Knickerbox. WHSmith. Scotts of Stow. Past Times.

  I hung back gingerly as Grayson bumbled and window shopped, coming to a suspiciously abrupt halt every time he paused to catch his breath, wipe his forehead or rummage again in his little black holdall. At the end of the wide arcade, approaching the sickly yellow EXIT sign, he tottered left, around a corner out of sight. Mindful of Christopher’s instructions I put a mincey spurt on – a fine manoeuvre, as long as your target hasn’t decided to stop suddenly.

  Shit.

  The floor was slippery. Arms jittering, mind flashing, I dodged past, inches from his crumpled shoulders, with no choice but to keep going, moving past him, away towards the sliding doors.

  Shit shit shit.

  I came to as leisurely a stop as I could without actually skidding, Keystone style. Panicky and ill-informed regarding stealth procedure, I was forced to fall back on the old favourite of checking-the-watch-irritably, a transparent move but the choice of embarrassed train-missers and bus-chasers all over the country. I chewed my lip theatrically and tried to say “hmmm, now where did I leave something important?” with my eyebrows to the passing crowd, and turned slowly, keeping an eye out for a blue cap.

  Gone. Nowhere.

  Exits? Absolutely. Trolleys? No question. Tensile barriers, Sock Shops, Ceramic Beefeater Marts? Lord yes. But no fat Kansas memorabilia collectors.

  No.

  Oh no no no.

  I kept turning.

  Blonde hair, brown hair, black hair. Green caps, yellow caps, red caps. Umbrellas, bobble hats, Union Jack deely boppers.

  Shit.

  Swallowing hard, legs shooting out one way, body another, elbows flapping in neither direction, I was slowly squeezed by panic.

  I’d lost him. He’d gone. I’d fucked it up. I’d have to tell Christopher and the others. They’d make me pay. Half a million pounds. I don’t have half a million pounds. I don’t have anything. Shit. I was in deep –

  There.

  Fifty yards away, among the throng, the flash of blue millinery.

  “S’cuse me, sorry, s’cuse me, coming through,” I began to hurry after him, tripping on holdalls and trolleys. He had swung back on himself. A low illuminated yellow sign said bureau de change. He turned right and waddled over to a large desk, where some mascara was waiting to swap up his dollars.

  Stomach rolling, I slowed, coming to a halt by the higgledy-piggledy pin board of currency prices. In the dark glass, I watched the reflection of Grayson among the little crooked flags and equally crooked exchange-rates. He was peeling a frightening quantity of dollars from his black handbag, counting them out onto the desk.

  The woman behind the desk insisted on counting it too, which seemed to piss him off. He started jabbing at his wrist-watch and barking in a southern twang about service and professionalism and the customer always being right, which naturally, this being London, made her smile thinly and count it all over again more slowly.

  I took the opportunity to check my new timepiece, which for a clumsy fake, was proving surprisingly reliable. 5.32pm. Henry had told me he’d be ready to take the call about now. He’d be sitting in the shop with the others, circled about the phone, Julio probably muttering about how it had gone to shit and how I was trust to be notted.

  Irritably, Grayson tutted over his currency, scooping up the sterling, folding it into his handbag and spun on his heel with a weeble wobble.

  Oopsie. Off again.

  I followed, keeping too far, too close, too far, my pace scuttling and lunging crazily, until we were out through the hissing doors into the hissing rain. It was cold, wind washing filthy sheets in gritty grey gusts. Grayson was moving, as hoped, over to the bleak concrete of the taxi rank where pale, crinkled, weather-worn men were stewarding cabs about with ruthless inefficiency.

  My mobile phone began to buzz in my pocket. Henry. Shit shit shit.

  Other terminal doors were hissing and thudding, families and couples stumbling through with bags, pointing at the taxi queue. I let one or two in ahead of me with a wet smile so as not to be too near before taking my place in the queue.

  Breathing out, wiping clammy palms on my jeans, I sent my eyes on quick reconnaissance. There were about a dozen people in the queue in front of him, one by one, two by two, clambering into the passing cabs that b
arely stopped.

  Grayson was glancing around. Bored. Checking his watch, pulling out a mobile phone of his own from his little handbag and dialling with a fat thumb. As the queue shortened, he shoved his wheelie-case forward roughly with his trainers.

  With a deep breath, I fished out my buzzing phone and thumbed open the line.

  This was it.

  “Neil, where are you? Dad’s furious? He’s waiting for you at the house. His accountant’s there, he’s got a train –”

  “Shit. Jane, Jane –”

  “Where are you now? Are you nearly there? It’s half past five. He can’t wait much –”

  “I-I’ve … shit, I’ve been trying to call,” I whispered, “I-I’m stuck in traffic. We’ll have to reschedule. Apologise for me can you? I’ll get the cab to turn around, head back –”

  “Oh Neil, for heaven’s sake –”

  “I know, I know.”

  I could feel Jane’s fury crackling down the line. Another shell loaded into her father’s arsenal to pummel her with at their next lunch.

  “I’ll have to tell him to just go,” she sighed. “You’re still on for picking him up from Victoria when he gets back next Tuesday though? I can tell him that? I said eleven-thirty by the newsstand outside. You’d bring the car and drop him back here?”

  I looked up. Grayson was still drawling away on his phone, kicking his bag forward. Cabs rolling up, rolling off.

  “Oh, yes yes. Look Jane, the er, the cab driver’s trying to talk to me, I’d better –”

  “Catherine and Jack have confirmed dinner on Thursday, okay?”

  The family in front scuttled forward three feet.

  “Fine, fine, whatever,” I said, voice wobbly. “Call your dad. Apologise. Look, I-I have to go. Love you. Love you lots.”

  “Call us later.”

  I thumbed the line closed, breathing out hard, heart thudding. Rain drummed on the plastic awning above. Around us, cabs were rolling in squeakily, dropping off, yellow lights snapping on, then sliding over, splashing black surf against soggy socks. Grayson was three groups away from the front of the line, still on the phone. Slippy fingers and thumbs, I dialled the shop, clearing my throat. The phone was snatched up on the first ring.

  “Heroes Incorporated,” an Australian voice crackled.

  “It’s me,” I whispered. “Sorry, Jane w-was –”

  “Yes and no answers mate,” Henry interrupted brusquely. “Can you see him? He should be on a phone. Christopher’s on the other line confirming tomorrow’s buy with him.”

  I looked over. Grayson was nodding, fat fingers peeling the pages of an A-Z.

  “I see him.”

  “Within fifteen feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Quickly. Turn your back on him. Don’t look. Now complain about the line. Bad line. Apologise. Speak up, shout.”

  “Uhmm, hello?” I said. “Hello?” A little louder. The family facing me stared back. I mouthed an apology. “Where are you, I can’t hear? Hello? Can you hear me?”

  “Good. Keep the voice loud. Not shouting. But he has to hear you. More, keep going. But keep your back to him.”

  “You’re breaking up a bit … can you hear me now?”

  Henry continued to prompt me. I stood, one finger in my ear like an idiot, shuffling backwards along the queue, speaking at an obnoxious volume.

  “Pardon? … Yes, yes I heard about it. That’s why I’m here …”

  I swallowed hard, heart slamming.

  “No, not according to Sotheby’s website … what? … No, Joe Shuster’s …”

  At which point, despite all of Christopher’s warnings, I turned around.

  I couldn’t help it.

  I turned around.

  Grayson was staring at me. Not blinking. Eyes fixed on mine.

  nine

  “Mr Grayson?” Christopher cooed. “Mr Grayson, it’s Christopher Laurie. We spoke yesterday. How is your hotel? … My sincerest apologies, truly. I … Yes, yes I understand, but my train was terribly delayed leaving Blidworth and there were signal problems at Daventry …”

  The next day. Monday morning, Christopher’s clipped gentry tone might still have been in attendance but his clipped gentry tweeds were spending the day back in the closet. He was attired in ugly loafers, cheap shiny-bummed suit trousers and had his chubby pot-belly inside white polyester shirt-sleeves, rolled roughly above his elbows. His sweaty frame oozed petrol station-pies and cheap salesmen’s hotels. Perched behind my till, chattering into his tiny phone, he peered into a small shaving mirror balanced on top of a silver attaché case on the counter, dabbing tentatively at a painful-looking gash on his forehead, blood shining on his fingertips.

  “I know we arranged the buy for ten o’clock but I’m running about forty minutes behind … Hmn … Yes yes of course, I have it here with me now,” and Christopher ran a palm over the silver case. “ … Uh-huh … And you have the agreed fifty-four hundred – ? … And where are you now? Well then what I’m thinking, save you sitting around waiting, is if you wouldn’t mind, maybe meeting me a little north of there? … No, just a short stroll, I promise you. I have a viewing appointment with the owner of a shop on Brigstock Place. He’s holding some items for the auction I mentioned and I’m keen to … well it’s just off Beak Street …”

  I had my breath held and my fingers crossed. Which, while making me feel a little better, made holding a step-ladder as Julio clambered up to unscrew Judy Garland from the wall rather difficult.

  “My train’s due in at Charing Cross in a few minutes. I’ll join you there as soon as I … Again I do apologise … That’s marvellous. Until then,” and Christopher hung up.

  “Well?” Julio said, handing me the Easter Parade, but Christopher raised a blood-smeared finger, requesting silence. His phone began to rumpty-tumpty-tumpty-tum again but barely got a chance to deet-dee-deet-dee-deeee-dee before he clicked it open.

  “Henry? … Good. Keep with him. He’ll probably go along Piccadilly and cut north …”

  I hefted up to Julio the display case containing the aging underpants.

  “… Righty-ho. Keep him in sight and let us know when he’s ten minutes away,” and Christopher thumbed the line closed. “Grayson is on his way. Uniform looks very natty Julio dear.”

  Julio too was out of his usual garb of combats and walking boots, squirming up the ladder in a crackly polyester security-guard outfit, all epaulets, shiny peaks and the great smell of dry-cleaning.

  “Now, it’s three-quarters of a mile,” Christopher said, lifting the mirror and pouting at his scar thoughtfully. “We’ve timed a steady walk at just under twenty minutes. That’s if you don’t stop and you know where you’re going. Grayson’s heavy and new in town. Chances are he’ll get a little lost and do a little browsing. Which gives Pete,” and Christopher checked his kitchen timer, “about a half hour to get back from the printer. Shouldn’t be any problem at all. Excellent. Splendid. Bon.”

  The Archers were calling again.

  “Ah, that’ll be him. Hopefully just around the corner.” Christopher opened it up. “Dear fellow! How close are … Arses. When … ? Are you … ? Daww, frolicking fuckbusters,” and he snapped his phone closed, jaw grinding. “That was Henry again. Grayson’s in a cab. Two minutes away.”

  “Cab? Aww fack …”

  “B-but the brochure … ?” I flapped. Oh God.

  “Check the back!” Christopher hollered. “Go, go!”

  With a panicky jitter, I left the team spitting, cursing and wobbling up ladders, slapping back through the office and out of the fire escape into the cold alley. Wading among the split bin-bags and next door’s soggy book-boxes, I moved quickly, my All-Stars splashing through piss and litter, bouncing off the damp walls. Up ahead, where the alley opened onto the street, traffic slid slowly past. White vans pulled in and pulled out, couriers blurred past with a yell until a cab finally squeaked to a halt, the back door flying open.

  “Pete!” I bellowed.
>
  He looked up, eyes wide. He was dressed just as I’d suggested – the traditional shopkeeper’s garb of black denim, tatty Converse and an unironed Green Lantern T-shirt. Just as I was in fact.

  The only key difference between us being the glossy brochure tucked under an arm.

  “Hey,” a muffled American voice said. “Hey, you open?” The door rattled hard.

  “Down!” Christopher whispered, backing away quickly in a low hunch. Julio sprung from atop the step-ladder in a blur of braiding and Air-Ware sole, wiping a shiny forehead and pulling down the peak of his cap.

  “Wait wait,” Pete hissed behind the till, breathing deep. Flustered fingers hovered over the keys. “Sub-total twice, right? Then total?” He lifted the empty telephone receiver to his ear and licked his lips.

  The door rattled again.

  “Let’s go ladies,” Christopher hissed, grabbing the mirror and case from the counter and bustling me out to the kitchen in the back. “Keep it tight.”

  I fell stumbling against the wall in the dusty darkness, heart rattling like the shutters. Christopher stood close, the warm pipe-smoke smell of his clothes deep in my lungs. I could feel his breath on my face, hot and fast. He smiled, placing a shiny finger to his lips.

  We listened.

  Footsteps. Julio. Those heavy security-guard boots. The crack of the lock and the jingle of the door. Traffic. Loud. The wind rattling the steel grid over the window.

  “Wish I could, pal, but I can’t.” Pete’s voice. Firm. “Huh? Speak up, this line … Well you can call Los Angeles but they’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you … Japan? No I don’t. It’s all by strict appointment only. I just get a list from the Sotheby’s people.”

  We could hear Julio muttering, giving the visitor the once over. Who are you, what do you want, appointment only – the whole Securicor bit.

  Pete continued down the empty phone.