Conman

by Richard Asplin

  Julio left.

  I turned and leant against the door, letting it click shut behind me and sighing an anxious sigh when the phone began to ring.

  Christopher.

  Was Julio still there? How had Laura sounded? Was I holding up? Not long now.

  I explained Julio had cleared everything out and gone. Stripped clean. It was as if they had never arrived. And me? I was ready. I just wanted it over.

  Christopher told me not to worry. He and Pete were all set. The room was ready, the drip was in, the pants were wrapped and they were ready to go. Grayson had just called. He was still on for noon. The only loose cannon now was Laura. Did I have any clue where she was?

  “Literally no ideaaarrgghhHH!” I said, followed by a “Sorry. No no, not a clue.”

  The reason for this being that Laura suddenly stood in the doorway to my office, shaking her head, eyes wide, very much the worse for wear.

  “I screwed up Neil. I-I screwed everything up.” Her face began to collapse, bunching on the edge of tears and she fell into my arms, her slim body almost disappearing in my hug. Something flipped against my fingers. At her neck, a £2950 price tag still on the dress.

  Everything that had first struck me about Laura the night the thieves had taken her car – the feistiness, the sway of her walk, the way she put her weight on one hip, the dip of her head – that was all gone now.

  She looked eight years old. Maybe seven. Her hair was a tangled crackle, wisps falling out around the sides. The little make-up that remained had been stolen from mummy’s dressing table and applied in haste. Mascara streaked down one eye like a bruise, lipstick thin, half rubbed away. Her dress was crumpled, torn a little at the neck. No tights. One shoe missing, her bare foot bobbing on its ball, cold against the peeling office lino. She was sniffing, trembling.

  “I did … I did what you said,” and she swallowed hard, wiping her eyes, mascara creating a feline swipe across her temple. “Last night. I did it. I went to his bag, his black bag, and took some money out.”

  “Four black.”

  “He … he was in the shower. He just said take a fat wad from th-the black bag. A hundred big ones he said. I – I …”

  “Which you did. Then what? C’mon,” I urged. “What happened then?”

  “Well it was more than I thought, y’know? There were thousands in there. Hundreds of thousands. All wrapped up in fat bands, like from a bank, y’know? Hundred dollar bills. Piles of them. So I took a wad. Like he said. Like you said. A wad. Like you told me to.”

  She gave a messy sniff. I fetched her some loo roll from the toilet. She bunched it up and wiped her nose.

  “The casino gave me a tray. These square chips. Four black.” She was breathing deep, slowly now, recovering. “Well it lost. Red nine. So y’know, I went back to the room. What was I supposed to do?”

  “It’s all right,” I soothed. “It’s all right.”

  “I get out of the lift and he’s in the corridor. He’s yelling. Standing there in his pants. You dumb bitch, where the hell’s my goddamn money! You bitch this, you goddamn whore that. People are coming out of their doors.”

  “But –”

  “He grabs me, pulls me back to his room, throws me across the bed.” Her hand instinctively reached up to her upper arm. There were the fat blue welts of a hard grip. “He had two.”

  “Two?”

  “Two. He had two. How was I to … ?”

  “Two what? Laura? What are you – Lift your head, I can’t hear your –”

  “You said. You told me. Take a wad. Go to his bag …”

  “I know. Slow down, Laura –”

  “His bag. Black one. On the bed. Go to it. Take a wad. You never said. He never said …”

  “Slow down. Relax. Tell me. Two … ?”

  “Bags. Fucking bags. Two fucking –”

  “Bags. He had two bags?”

  “YES! Two stupid black bloody stupid bags.” She wriggled away from me. Angry. At herself, at the situation, at the world. “A stupid black girly thing. Like a –”

  “Handbag,” I said, swallowing hard. “Like a handbag.”

  “Right. That’s what he meant.”

  “That’s what he – ?”

  “THAT’S what he meant! Take a wad from there. Not …”

  “But you … Oh. Oh God, you …” I trailed off, sick cold fear creeping in around the edges. “What did he – ?

  “A hundred pounds. He’d meant a hundred pounds. From his purse. A wad of fives. A hundred pounds. Not …”

  “God, how much did – ? Laura? How … ?”

  “It was dollars. Wrapped in bands. A hundred grand.”

  “A hundred grand?! But –”

  “Then he starts. Whacking me. Hitting me. Hard. With the little bag, like a whip, over his head, round and round. It’s got th-these clips, metal fasteners …”

  “Oh Jesus, Laura …”

  “And all the time he’s shouting. I’m trying to stand up but he’s shouting. What have you done you dumb bitch, what have you done!”

  “So … wait, I don’t understand. Where … ? You took a hundred thousand from – ?”

  “His bag. A holdall thing. On the bed. He said on the bed. You said take it.”

  The room began to throb and spin. I held her tight, to keep her still, to keep everything still.

  “Ow, ow Neil –”

  “Shit, sorry, I-I’m sorry.” My head thudded. “Okay so, he’s angry …”

  “He’s slapping me. Over and over. I’m screaming, praying someone will hear. Knock on the door, call the police, something. Then he just stops. Just walks away. Slams the door. Disappears.”

  “Where … where did he –”

  “I don’t know,” Laura said. She looked up at me with her bruised eyes, blinking and teary. “I … I lay on the floor for a while. It hurt, y’know? It hurt just to move. But eventually I got up and lay on the bed. I remember the light was on, the ceiling light. Bright. I could feel it against my eyes but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get up to turn it off. So I just lay there.”

  “You want to go to hospital?” I said, backing away, looking her over. Her knees, her thighs, bruised with angry black flowers.

  She shook her head.

  “Let me … just let me sit down.”

  I led her to a chair, returned to the kitchen and boiled the kettle for tea. As it bubbled away, I went back to Laura. She hadn’t moved. Head bowed, shaking, shivering, one bare blue foot curled around the toe of her remaining shoe.

  “He –” she began, stalling over the word. Over the thought of the man who had done this. “He woke me up a few hours ago. Shaking me. Still angry. Worse. A sort of calmness about it. I thought he was going to kill me. He was talking.”

  I knelt and took Laura’s hands. They were bony and freezing. I gently rubbed the knuckles, trying to wake them, to bring them to life, returning her to the ring. Round two.

  “Said I’d ruined everything. On and on. I’d ruined everything. It was … I mean he wasn’t making sense. Pacing about in his tuxedo, little silk socks. The fat –”

  “It’s all right, it’s all right.”

  “He doesn’t have any money,” Laura said heavily. “It’s … it’s a pose, all a fake.”

  “A con?” The room swayed a little. I held on to Laura’s hand for some ballast.

  “No, no. Not like that. A bluff. Just pretending.”

  I heard the kettle click off but I left it.

  “His wife left him. Months ago. Adultery. Cleaned him out. Lawyers took everything. The museum, his house, car, TV. He has a few thousand pounds, that’s it. He’s trying to get started again with it. Investments, you know? Collectables. That’s why he was so angry. Before …”

  “eBay. Action Comics number four,” I nodded. It began to make sense. “The perfect start to a new collection. No wonder he travelled all this way.”

  “All this way just to get ripped off.”

  “God,” I sighed. “But w
ait, the half million? The pants? Christopher. Noon today, the deal? If he’s broke, how … ?”

  “He borrowed it.”

  “Borrowed – ?”

  “Said he made some calls a day or so ago. Went to some dodgy club off Bethnal Green Road. Above some shop. Explained the situation. He’s borrowed the five hundred thousand pounds off some bookie for a week.”

  “Five hundred …” I stood up, Laura’s hand squeezing mine, not wanting to let go. I began to put the maths together. “So he’s short … Wait, you spent a hundred grand in dollars. That’s about –”

  “I spent!?” Laura said. “You told me to do what he said, take a fat wad, keep him happy, black four –”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay –”

  “It’s not!” and she tore her hand away hard, glaring at me, eyes wide and wet. “It’s all off. He’s threatening to walk. To get on the plane and go home.”

  “Home? No. No wait wait, it’s just, no wait.” I put my hands down on the desk for support, breathing deep. “It’s … it’s just a hundred grand. Sterling, about fifty-five thousand, give or take. He can go and see Christopher with four hundred and fifty grand.”

  “He won’t. That’s what I’m saying. He’s frightened. You were right. Christopher was right. It’s all just bluff. He’s pathetic. Scared. He won’t go in without the full amount.”

  “Okay. Okay,” and I began to pace. I felt suddenly damp under the arms, short of breath. It was so near. Three hours. It was so near. “Okay,” I said. “Okay so … so we call Christopher. Yes. Yes, we call Christopher. Now.”

  An idea was beginning to slot together.

  “Call – ?”

  “Christopher,” I said quickly. “We call him. Tell him what’s happened. He’s lying on a hospital surplus bed in his flat as we speak, tubes sticking out of him all over, waiting for Grayson to show. We tell him there was a screw-up.”

  “He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me,” Laura strained. “He’ll think it’s my fault. They said. That guy. They’re not in the mood to write off five hundred grand. They’ll pin this on me! I’ll wind up in the boot of some car. Christ Neil. Neil what am I going to do?”

  “It’s … it’s all right. Listen. Listen, Christopher, he’s a businessman for God’s sake. We tell him Grayson’s come up short. Doesn’t matter about the details. We’ll say … we’ll say he put the bet on …”

  “He did put the bet on.”

  “Huh – ? Yes, yes I know, I know, I mean –”

  “You think I screwed this up! I was just doing what I was told!”

  “Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s –”

  “He said put a bet on! You said put a bet on! If Christopher’s going to kill me then my last dying words are going to be telling him whose orders I was following!”

  “Okay okay, you’re right, you’re right, okay. Shit. Look, we’ll tell Christopher to call Grayson –”

  “From his death bed? He’s meant to be sick you said?”

  “To check, to confirm, to – whatever. Get him to sound urgent, like something’s happened, like he really needs the sale. A bit desperate. Grayson will say he doesn’t have it all and Christopher can say that it doesn’t –”

  “He won’t,” Laura shouted. “I tried this with him. That’s the point. He won’t tell him. He’s petrified.”

  “Fuck,” I spat. I kicked the desk, mind hammering. It didn’t help. “FUCK! Then … well then why doesn’t he … ? I don’t understand, why doesn’t he borrow more from the bookie? The guy’s lending him five, what difference does another –”

  “He said they don’t know him,” Laura said. “They don’t trust him. The deal’s been signed, shaken on, whatever it is. He said he can’t go in and start changing things. They’ll smell a rat.”

  I closed my eyes, teeth grinding hard and angry.

  “So … so then I don’t get it. I don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  “Christopher just called. Just now. Says he’s spoken to him and he’s all set. How is he all set? What’s his … Wait. Why’s he dropped you off here? You don’t have the money. What have you … ?”

  “I lied to him.”

  “Awww for Christ’s –”

  “I had to! I told him a friend might have it.”

  “Me?!”

  “I didn’t mention any –”

  “ME?! You told him about me?!”

  “No. No, I just said I could raise it among people I knew. Call in favours. My dad, my brother. I told him I could make calls. Anything to get me out of the cab. You don’t know what he’s like,” and her hands traced the angry bruises on her arms.

  “Awww fuck it. Fuck it!” I lashed out, spinning in the small office, sending jiffy bags and pen tidies scattering. What were we going to do? What were we going to do? Three hours. Three hours.

  “Neil? You listening?”

  “Hn?” I turned. Laura was looking at me. She’d dried the red squinty smudges that passed for her eyes. Her jaw was tight and fixed. Shoulders pulled back. I got a glimpse of old Laura. Just for a second.

  “I said let’s go. Run. Both of us.”

  “Run?”

  “Together,” and she stood up, stepping towards me, close. I felt her hands take mine, her breasts press up against my chest. Her breath was warm and sweet on my face. “Just … just leave. Run.”

  “Run? What are you talking about?”

  I didn’t get an immediate answer. Or maybe I did. I can’t be sure, what with the kiss and everything.

  It was hard, fast and urgent, her mouth on mine hungrily. Surprised as I was, I opened my mouth in shock, which Laura took for complicity, her tongue lunging in, meeting mine, dancing and curling. My hands were on her shoulders, hers on mine, gripping, pinching, nails hard. I felt her knee push between mine, moving forward, her thigh –

  “Jesus!” I said, pulling away hard.

  “Neil,” she said again, in a half moany collapse, moving in for another go. I straightened my arms, keeping her back, stepping away, bumping against the door frame.

  “No, No, Laura, Jesus Christ, what – what are you doing?”

  “I thought – ?”

  “No,” I said. My heart was slamming slamming slamming like it would pound the print off my shirt. “No, Laura. Fuck. This isn’t … No, this isn’t going to happen. Nobody’s running.”

  “You don’t want me?”

  “What? What no, no it’s not – Christ, that’s … Jesus,” and I turned, moving out into the shop, mind thudding. This wasn’t right.

  I heard Laura click out behind me in her one shoe, sniffing a little. I took a deep breath and turned to look at her.

  “Laura, look, listen to me. I have a wife. I have a family. I love my family. I told you. That’s what all this is about. I’m trying to protect them. Provide …” I shook my head. “I can’t run. I don’t want to run. Let’s … look, let’s just think about this.”

  “Then I’m going,” she said, turning.

  “Laura, wait, wait! Just hold on. There must be –”

  “I’m out of a job, you don’t want me, Christopher’s going to kill me. I’ve got no car, I’ve got no shoe. I’ve got nothing. I’m going.”

  “Wait!” I yelled. “Just … Look, we can fix this.” I checked my watch. “You’ve got Grayson’s number? His mobile? Call him. Tell him … Shit. Tell him you’ve got the money.”

  “Got it?”

  My mind was spinning, clicking, wheels turning, pieces dropping into place like the Downfall ball-bearings on my shelf of games. Doing the sums. Adding it up.

  “Half of it. Tell him you’ve got some of it. Most of it. It’s all you could raise. Tell him you got it from your brother, your mum, your boss. Something.”

  “But we don’t have it. What happens when –”

  “We can get …” I said with a determination I didn’t recognise. I found myself at the desk, on the telephone. Almost of its own accord, my hand was reaching for my morning’s post. “We can salv
age …”

  “Neil?”

  “It’s not too late. We can get most of it. It’ll still … it’ll still add up. Call him. Call him now …”

  “What are you doing? Most – ? Who are you calling? Neil?”

  part two

  fourteen

  “Neil? Neil Martin?”

  The voice was hard to place immediately, like a brass band playing Smells Like Teen Spirit. My head crash-zoomed out of its thick mist and suddenly the pub, Thursday night, life, was clattering and ringing about me in surround sound. Yelling, belching, till drawers chunking, fruit machines bleeping.

  Twisting around on my stool, a tanned face grinned down at me. I blinked three times, blowing dust from the mental yearbook.

  “Christ,” I said, his features pulling into focus. “Benno? Holy shit!”

  “Heyyyyy!” Andrew said.

  I stumbled to my feet, the room buckling and bending a little, falling into slaps and growls and gruff hugs.

  “Good to see you mate,” Andrew said, gripping my upper arms and giving me a manly shake. “Bloody hell. How long has it been? You all right? You on your tod?”

  “Er … ?” I blinked back dizzily, checking about my soggy corner table for a large collection of close friends I might have forgotten about. “Yes, yes. Just me. God, what are you …” I stumbled. “We were talking about … I mean Jane and I … just a few … What-what are you … ?”

  “Back in town. Bit of business,” he said, jutting his chin out a little and tugging a hands-free wire from his ear with a pop, gathering up the thin cable. “Bit of big business.” He noticed me giving his garb a quick scan, dressed as he was less for business, more for a night in with Pringles and Robot Wars. “Oh don’t let this get-up fool you,” he said, peeling off his denim jacket. “I’m Mr Madison Avenue these days. Hotel dry-cleaners buggered-up my – hey! Over here!” he broke off, beckoning across the busy scrum. “Mr O’Shea? I’d like you to meet a very, very old friend of mine. Mr O’Shea? Neil Martin.”

  O’Shea was a bullish, stocky Irishman. A whisky barrel in a suit. He pushed through the pub crowd and tore my shoulder off with his handshake, white eyebrows like two seagulls squabbling over a discarded ice-cream. He sat us down and got some drinks in.