Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “– that clogging up the cemetery? I remember,” I sighed, shaking my head.

  “Your Dad’s better’an that. He’s got bigger plans.”

  “Plans?” I barked in surprise. Surprise with an unhealthy full-fat spoonful of anger thrown in. Anger at the relationship, that this attitude, this life had kept from me. “What plans? A game of cards then once round the yard before slopping out?”

  Dad stopped, sparrow’s chest heaving inside his flimsy tracksuit top. He looked me over with his wet, yellowing eyes. I began to shift itchily in my seat. He stubbed out his cigarette slowly and purposefully in the thin foil ashtray. Finally he lifted his Coke bottle and sat back, holding it to his chest. He sat like that for a while, just the wheezy whistle of his breathing and the odd blink before he eventually sniffed, curling a crooked bitter smile.

  “You,” he sneered, shaking his head with tired, cynic’s wisdom. “You workin’ mugs. Always first in line to dish out the sentence, ain’tcha, eh? Up there, lookin’ down on us real men. Us who said no to the commute, to the grind, to the forty-year slog and the cheap golden fuck-off. Oh, nice wristwatch there son, by the way. Very bling.”

  I scowled, tugging down my sleeve.

  “You ’ave to get pompous about it, don’tcha eh? Helps you sleep does it? Helps you forget the men like me with balls you wouldn’t dream of,” and he held his hands out like he were judging the two finalists in the World’s Largest Melon contest. “You’ve gotta make out you’re so much better, ain’tcha? Your little theories? Blame jumps a gate or whatever it is? I’m the lazy one. Well if you wanna talk about lazy, son, let’s talk about the second job you got when you let your basement get flooded, shall we? Let’s talk about your minicab runs, your bar-work, the night-shifts you were pulling down to keep bread on the family table when the plumbing went tits-up.”

  I began to examine my hands carefully, chewing the inside of my cheek.

  “If you’re so bloody clean, how did this Christopher get his claws into you, eh? If you’re so straight, what was following this Grayson to the airport all –”

  An angry buzzer sounded, making everyone jump. I looked up. Women were getting to their feet slowly, hoisting bawling children onto their hips. The prisoners didn’t move.

  I looked back at Dad and he folded his arms.

  “You and me maybe ain’t so different lad. Despite what you tell yourself. Maybe you’re your father’s son. Juuuust a little bit …”

  I trembled, feeling my guts writhe in angry, guilty snakes.

  “In yer blood, son,” he went on. “Family. You know what they say. You can’t change what you are.”

  “No,” I ground, teeth tight. “Not me.”

  “Oh yes. That’s what’s got you here. But, see, that’s what’ll get you out.”

  “How?”

  “You’re gonna have to play by their rules. If you’re gonna do this right. And maybe that bit of your father in you you scold so much is gonna be the edge you need. First off, you’re gonna getcha’self outta here, sharpish,” Dad said, stretching his back with a horrendous dull clicking noise. “Go on, you’ll get me in schtook. We ’ave to stay seated ’ere until you’re all clear,” and he popped the top of his tin and slid out another cigarette paper. “C’mon, you’re eatin’ into our association time ’ere. Shift yerself.”

  I sighed and stood up, stomach tumbling when I felt a tight dry grip grab my knuckles hard. Wincing, I looked down. Dad was holding my hand, wet eyes fixed on mine, wide and shaking.

  “And second job is getting my grand-daughter’s future back, y’hear me? I might not have raised the gambling prodigy I wanted but I didn’t raise a sap, neither. You’re smart. In a teacuppy sort of way.”

  I smiled a little.

  “You think about what I said. These men? This Christopher? Lazier and greedier than the fattest mark, remember that. So for a real payday? A pot of gold? They’ll come sniffin’ around. They won’t be able to help ’emselves. Figure out the details yourself. You know ’im. Find ’im. However you think you can swing it. But swing it. Dangle him a once-in-a-lifetime. Something he can’t turn down.”

  “I will,” I said.

  The buzzer blared another angry metallic moan. “Thanks Dad. I … I’ll see you again,” and I turned from the table.

  “Lemme know when y’comin’ next time son. Gimme a bit more notice,” he said behind me, voice dry and low. “There’s a fellah you can pop over an see for me first.”

  I turned, holding a sigh tight in my chest.

  “What fellah?”

  “Heh-heh, never you mind, nudge nudge,” and he popped his cigarette in his mouth with a grin.

  I turned again and followed the long slow yellow line out of the hall to the car.

  seventeen

  “Payday?”

  “That’s what he said. The pot of gold. End of the rainbow, way up high. Anything less and Christopher just won’t come out. Your go.”

  It was four o’clock the same afternoon. Andrew and I were sat, bums cold in the chilly shop, hunched over a game of Connect Four. Instead of heading back to Putney to face an awkward home-a-bit-early-aren’t-we from Jane, I’d slung the Micra in the NCP on Brewer Street, hoping against all experience I might make enough from the remaining hour’s trade to be able to afford to pay its extravagant bail at five o’clock. So far, however, it’ll come as absolutely no surprise to you to learn, apart from Benno, I’d had only one visitor. A young man, after anything (serious face, intense brow, girlfriendless wardrobe) related to Robert De Niro. I’d been more than happy to show him a rarity – the US first advance print one-sheet from Raging Bull, illustrated by Kunio Hagio, only to find him less than happy to see me fish it out of a sopping basement bin-bag in six bits. So that was that.

  Andrew, in mostly his own clothes as per usual, dropped a yellow disc into the blue frame and sipped instant coffee.

  “He’s probably right. I don’t know much about it, but it’s not going to be worth Christopher’s team risking capture for a couple of hundred pounds. We’ll have to think big. Your go by the way old man.”

  I scanned the red and yellow dots, tapping a disc on my teeth, just as I had done all those years ago in the freezing college halls, among echoing shouts in distant stairwells, the smell of tinny tomatoes and the pop of tinnier speakers crackling early nineties compilation tapes – a lot of The Wonder Stuff if memory serves. A hundred evenings had seen us, sat together just like this. Board between us. Chess, Scrabble, Mousetrap. Sometimes a game for games’ sake. More often a coded approach to a tricky topic – idle chat about strategy and manoeuvre before something touchy was tentatively raised: missed lectures, absent fathers. Or famously one cold, third-year morning – where Jane and I had been all night?

  Back then I had waited, writhing, for Andrew to ask what needed asking. To say what needed saying.

  Here, ten years later, he still hadn’t got the hint.

  “What?” Andrew said suddenly, which made me jump rather. “What? There’s that look. What am I meant to be saying?”

  “No no, nothing.”

  “Neil?”

  “Well, I thought … Payday wise … maybe O’Shea?”

  “O’– ? Oh. Oh no. No no no …” and Andrew began to shake his head slowly, sliding away from the desk. I began a bit of verbal scurrying about.

  “He’s new in town,” I said. “Bit smug, bit pompous, got these millions to spend? Can’t we … I mean, isn’t there any kind of property …” I floundered a bit. “Not scam, exactly –”

  “Neil …”

  “– but a bit of jiggery-pokery you know of? We get O’Shea to meet Christopher … somehow,” I inserted a little limply. “Christopher brings some money in a bag, we … I dunno, get O’Shea to swap the bag for … uhmm …” It was coming apart badly. “Another … bag … thing?”

  Another bag thing? Oh excellent Neil. Dazzling.

  Andrew shook his head. Or was more than likely just still on the head-shake he
’d started five minutes ago. Either way, quite understandably I suppose, he wasn’t having any of it.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry old chap. I can’t. Even if there was some scheme, I still couldn’t risk … O’Shea is my way in. The brass bloody ring. He’s been talking about offloading this Manhattan place for years. I think his father gave it to him in his will or some such thing. Anyway it’s got that it’s kind of an in-joke among New York agents. Every year he puts his toe in the water, makes some inquiries. All the Manhattan agents fall over each other giving him a valuation and then boom – he changes his mind. Cantankerous old bastard. Sits back and waits another bloody year.”

  “But how’s this time any different … ?”

  “He called me. Out of the bloody blue. I think I gave my card to his sister-in-law’s neighbour at some party? Anyway, as usual he says he fancies a change of scenery. Getting tired of New York. What will his money get him in London? At first I thought forget it, penny-pinching old git, but Veronica talked me into going after him. But really going for it. The hard sell. Keatings said I was wasting my time but I thought hell, why not? This is how senior sales executives become partners. Played golf, took him to lunch, met his wife, all the time pushing the agency. Old bastard signed me up at his kitchen table.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Now all I have to do is bring this one home and I’m set. We’re talking share options, corner office, executive washroom. We can take the place in Long Island …”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “Forget it. I was clutching at straws,” and I waved him away, focusing again on the Connect Four board, dropping in an idle disc and trying to hide my absolute, crushing, flattening, steamrollering disappointment. It had been all I could think of all the way back up the M2 that afternoon. I’d mapped it all out in laughably detail-less detail. Some simple switcheroo that Andrew would fortuitously have up his well-tailored sleeves. Bing bang bong, fifty thousand, thank you very much.

  “Plus O’Shea’s the wrong man anyway,” Andrew said. He sat down again and dropped in a yellow disc quickly. “Far too cautious. Oaf insists on having every dime signed for in triplicate by his lawyers. I’ve almost blown this once by rounding up the Holborn valuation by a penny. You should have seen him bluster away. A penny? But … but actually that’s all moot because you saying that has just made me realise. Whatever we do, he’s got us over a barrel.”

  “Barrel? Who, O’Shea?”

  “This Christopher. Hell. It’s going to be trickier than we …” and Andrew got to his feet quickly, almost upsetting the board. He began to pace urgently among the racks and bin-bags, humming to himself.

  “You all right?” I said.

  “Look, let’s say … let’s say we did try some real estate oojah. Some contract drawn up for some plot of land. A phoney survey, valuation, I don’t know. Five acres on the moon. Whatever.” Andrew had reached the far end of the shop, hands in pockets, clicking his tongue. “Our problem is that if your Christopher’s an expert – done his research for a property scam before maybe – he’s going to see through us straight away, right?”

  “Right,” I sighed.

  “But,” Andrew said, almost before I’d answered, face screwed tight in thought. “Flip side is, we dangle some multi-million pound property swindle under his nose and he isn’t au fait with the ins and outs? Well, we haven’t got him then either.”

  “We haven’t? But –”

  “No. Because we know from your experience he’s going to want to find himself a mentor chappie first. Just like he did with you. Someone to teach him the jargon, lend him an office, the whole bit. Put up a professional front. It could take weeks before he’s confident enough to step up to the plate.”

  “Weeks that I haven’t got,” I sagged sadly. My head filled with Edward. In three short days I’d be outside Victoria hefting his suitcase into the Micra while he sat bulging in the passenger seat drumming gloved fingers on my dashboard asking about accountants. “So you’re saying …” I said, brain lagging behind a little. “Shit, sorry, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying old man, if we do what your father says and try to draw Christopher out with the unmissable promise of some big payoff – cards, horses, comics, stamps, property – we’ve got to be sure of how much he knows before we –”

  “Wait,” I yelled.

  “What?”

  “That’s it. The pot of gold,” I said again, brain flipping ahead fast like a spoilsport with an Agatha Christie. “I might … Wait right there,” and I got up, sending the Connect Four toppling with a cheap plastic clatter. I scurried out into the dark back office, returning with two soggy bin-bags, held high in two fists. I dumped them on the counter with a rustle, tearing at the thin plastic and ripping a wide mouth in the top of the fatter bag. A foul, wet, mouldy stench burped forth, biting the back of my throat. I took a deep breath and began to rummage among the sopping paper filth of mush and mash.

  “What? Christ, what have you lost?” Andrew said, creeping forward.

  I tore open the second bag quickly. Another green rotten fart guffed from within.

  “In there. Get digging.”

  “What am I – ?”

  “A letter,” I said, fishing through the grey remains of buckled cardboard and posters, coffee cups and crap. “I completely forgot. What with everything … I mean half the time I don’t even remember I’ve got it, his lordship insisting it’s vacuum-packed and buried in a vault for when his grandchildren … C’mon … c’mon where are you … ?”

  “A letter from who?” Andrew said. He was picking up on my Christmas morning giddiness and fishing through his bag of sopping waste.

  “A-ha!” I cried triumphantly, unpeeling the soggy corners, browned from spilt food. “Here, here,” and I thrust both halves of the torn-up missive at him.

  Andrew looked at me warily before allowing himself a peer at the sopping sheets.

  “Dear Mr Martin,” he read aloud, laying the furry torn edges together. “In response to your letter of the fifteenth, without a viewing, we are unable to put an accurate valuation on your … Bloody hell.”

  “How’s that for a pot of gold?” I said, breathless.

  “Is this real?”

  “It’s what happens when you marry the daughter of an Earl. Jane never really let it show when you knew her. At college, I mean. What with her purple dreads and stripey leggings. But boy, they don’t do things by halves these types you know? You should have seen the wedding reception. Marquee like a bloody aircraft hangar.”

  “I wish I could have old mate,” Andrew said. He looked at me, brow crinkled.

  “Did you ever get the invite. You didn’t …”

  “I got it.”

  “You did?” I said, which came out louder and squeakier than I’d hoped. “God. We presumed … Because we never heard from you –”

  “Yeah, yeah I’m sorry about that.”

  “I mean not even an RSVP? Jane couldn’t work out why you didn’t get back to us.”

  “You’ve never told her about – ?” Andrew shrugged, hauling a wide hand through his waxy public school mop.

  “I wasn’t sure if that was … I mean that was a long time ago.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “So – ?”

  “Work,” he shrugged. “We were moving house. The twins,” and he sighed. “I’m sorry. I really would have loved to have seen it.”

  We let that sit there for a moment. I thought I saw something happen behind Andrew’s eyes. Regret, was it? I licked my lips, thoughts hanging there like nervous divers.

  Andrew moved on, focusing back on the soggy paper in his hand.

  “So … hold up, you own this?”

  “Wedding present,” I explained. “Well, an heirloom for Edward’s grandchild disguised as a wedding present I expect. But yes. Presented it on the day. I didn’t know where to look. You can’t imagine. Jane and I have been snogging out on the lawn …”

  Andre
w looked at me, blinking, all very faked interest.

  “Well … that’s not … we were outside. And the MC rings his bell and we’re summoned in and Jane’s dad gets this drum roll from the sixteen piece band thank-you very much.”

  “Bloody nora …”

  “Everyone hushes up and he presents me with this framed whassit. A certificate of ownership. That and a safety deposit box number at some bank in the city. Big cheer, the band start up the theme. Dum-da-daaaah, dah-duppity-dahhh, all that. Jane had given him the idea of course. He’d just written the cheque.”

  Andrew just stood, looking over at the Sotheby’s letter some more.

  “He got it from a dealer in Japan I think. Mint condition, or near as,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “June, 1938. First appearance. So what do you think? Any better ideas?”

  “Does … does Christopher know you have this?”

  “Christopher? No. He never asked, I never said. No reason he’d have a clue.”

  “Lordy …” and Andrew did all but wipe his forehead with a theatrical phew. “Well if this valuation is correct –”

  “It’s correct. Matches the current Overstreet, give or take a grand.”

  “Then, ladies and gentlemen, I think we have ourselves a pot of gold. But are you sure about this?” Andrew looked at me sideways on, eyebrows raised in concern. I felt like one of his twins asking to have the stabilisers taken from my bike.

  “What? You think he won’t go for it?”

  “Er, Superman number one? Eighty … where is it?” and he flipped over the sheet. “Eighty-five thousand pounds’ worth of comic book? Oh he’ll go for it.”

  “Then we use it. What choice do we have? Like you say, comic books, memorabilia, collectables? That’s the one field I know I know better than he does.”

  “But letting it out there, even just as bait. What if …”

  “What if?”

  “I mean he’s still the expert,” Andrew said. “The swaps and the switcheroos and whatnot. Even letting him look at it …”

  “I can’t worry about losing it. I can’t. My family. Jane. Lana. That, I’m not going to lose. Not at any price. Life without them … ? With respect to Siegel and Shuster, thirty-six vacuum-sealed, full colour pages of wham-bam cape-pant action aren’t going to be much company. Price tag or not. I can’t see another way. Dad’s right. Pot of gold. It’s my only choice and time’s running out. We’re doing this.”