Conman

by Richard Asplin

  “And you have the money now?”

  “Neil?”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I twittered, popping the hissy earpiece from my head, focusing back on the phone. “I’ve got six fucking voices going on at once here. Grayson, Christopher and Andrew negotiating in one ear, you in the other, Julio cursing up the front and my survival instinct telling me to put up my hands and call the whole thing off. You’ve got to get me out of here!”

  “Stay low, stay low, he must be almost here. Just keep out of sight.”

  “Out of sight?! He turns around and I’m dead! I’ve given him a gun full of live ammo! He sees me he’ll unload the lot.”

  “You’ll be all right, just for Chrissakes stay hidden.”

  “Shit, no?! Really?!” I spat.

  “Listen to me, first things first. You said you did it? The swap? Did you find the blue J-cloth with his –”

  “I did it, I did it,” I said. Swallowing hard, my eyes darted to Julio, hunched over the wheel in the front of the cab, sliding in and out of traffic. “It was right where you said. In the glovebox, along with everything else he’s ever owned.” I shifted a little against the doors, the cold oily metal of the blank revolver massaging the base of my spine.

  “And you’re certain he didn’t –”

  “He has no idea. You spoken to him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. His phone keeps cutting out. Battery problems. I’m only getting every fifth word.”

  “Shit. Look, I uhm –”

  “But the plan holds. He’ll be out front, cocked and ready at ten twentyfive sharp as planned. Right now your boy should be making his excuses. Can you hear them?”

  “Hold on, hold on,” and I lowered the phone and fumbled the tiny earpiece back in.

  “… until we know there’s no heat. Comic book of this value? Who the goddamn hell knows who’s out looking for it.”

  “I think he’s right. It sounds safest. Angus? What do you say?”

  “Hn? Oh. Uhm …”

  “Are you in? Angus? What do you say?”

  “Uhm, let me … I-I need the bathroom.”

  I popped out the headphone and leaned back into the mobile phone.

  “That’s it. Toilet break. Right on schedule. Christ, he better pull this off.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Laura crackled. “Keep your ears open and for Chrissakes stay out of sight,” and the line went dead.

  I slid the phone away awkwardly, hunching lower, shoulders biting the freezing metal. I thumbed the earpiece back inside. Andrew and Christopher were arguing, voices echoey from the toilet tile.

  I held my breath. C’mon old friend. This is it.

  This is it.

  “Mr Mayo, what the hell’s going on?” Christopher. Angry. “Toilet breaks? He’s out there with his fifty thousand, while you’re –”

  “In here with Superman,” Andrew hissed. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Oh and you’re the big expert on mark behaviour now? Shake your snake and let’s get out there.”

  “I … I can’t.”

  “What are you talking about? Keep your nerve. We’re almost there. Fifty thousand –”

  “I mean I can’t do it. The blood. The shooting. This … this chest bag.”

  “Careful!”

  The van motored on. Folded and crumpled, breath held in my buckled chest, I tensed further, eyes tight shut. In my ears, my heart thundered.

  C’mon Benno old chap.

  “You were right,” Andrew said, worried voice wobbling off the tile. “Okay?You were right. It’s a job for a professional. You should have let the girl do it. Linda. You should have let Linda do it. Look at me, I’m shaking. Look at me? I can’t do this.”

  “But you – ?! Jesus H Christ!” Christopher was losing it. Losing it bad. His voice was fading in and out. He was pacing. I shut my eyes, picturing them both in the acrid pong of the chipped toilets, his brogues shuffling on the puddled floor. “You insisted you wanted to get involved.”

  “How … how does this come off?”

  “What are you doing?! What in the name of frolicking fuckbusters are you doing?!”

  “I can’t do it. I won’t. I’m sorry. Burst the bag? Fall down screaming? I can’t do it. I can’t play dead. I can’t. I’ll screw it up. Here. Here you –”

  “Leave that there! Put your shirt –”

  “You have to do it. I – ow, this tape – I can’t. I won’t. Here. You wear it.”

  “Are you insane?! Julio’s on his way over! He’s in the van, on his way over, right now with the gun. How’s it going to look? He fires a blank at you but I’m the one who goes down?! Grayson’ll smell a –”

  “Then call this Julio. Phone him. Tell him to fire at you. Tell him you’re doing it. I can’t.”

  The van was slowing down.

  Oh God. Oh God we were here.

  The indicator ticked, the van grumbled and bubbled idly, revving hard. I tumbled sideways as Julio swung a wide arc, my hand out against the cold metal floor. He dragged the van forward, engine coughing. Five yards, ten yards, shadows falling across the windscreen.

  An alley. A narrow alley. Slowly. Slower.

  We stopped.

  Petrified, gripped with terror in the freezing darkness, I didn’t allow myself even to breathe. Julio shut off the engine and the van descended promptly into a gaunt, heavy quiet. A fart of vinyl as he leaned forward.

  My heart slammed slammed slammed.

  A scuffle. He sat back, cigarette in his mouth. A rasp and flare of matches and the shell of the van filled with sick blue smoke.

  Not daring to move, pins and needles beginning to crawl and numb, I shut my eyes and concentrated back on the crackling voices in my head.

  “… and I said we’re not altering anything at this stage.”

  “Then I quit.”

  “You –”

  “No. No, that’s it. I don’t need this bloody shit.”

  “Angus –”

  “I’m not doing it. I’ll walk. I’ll go out there, tell him to keep his money, take my bloody comic book and walk. I only came to you for insurance. All this tricky stuff was your idea. Forget it. And it’s Mr Mayo, to you pal.”

  “But … ! You … !” Christopher spat. “Fine! Fine, give it here then. Jesus, I’ve never – careful of the ring! You’ll puncture the fucking … Easy there, easy …”

  Breath held tight, I listened to the distant soft sticky ripping of tape, Christopher fussing, snapping.

  “Let me … Give it here, hold my jacket … where’s the damned mirror …”

  Among the thick cigarette smoke, Julio sat back, checking his watch, stretching his arm across the back of the passenger seat, flexing a fist. He pumped down the driver’s side window, distant traffic noises hissing, honking and sighing. He leaned forward. I saw him fuss with his mobile phone, slapping and clicking the broken battery cover. He slid it back to the dashboard.

  “That’s it,” Christopher was saying in my ear. “That’s it. Now give me the damned phone. I have to call Julio. Quickly …”

  Silence.

  Nothing in my ear. Nothing in the van. Nothing in the world. Just the throb of my heart, the sticky tack of a dry tongue and the bite of cramp in my feet and –

  I jolted suddenly, the metal popping and buckling beneath.

  Julio’s phone was ringing. Distorted. Crackly.

  Oblivious to me, Julio flicked the cigarette from the window and scuffled up the phone from among the dashboard debris. The ring was cutting in and out a little, fading and sweeping like a radio in a tunnel.

  Pins and needles biting and tingling, I allowed myself to shift a half inch, teeth tight against the thick pop of metal.

  “Go ahead,” Julio barked.

  “Julio? Julio it’s me,” Christopher crackled distantly in my earphone. He was echoey. Still in the toilet. Andrew had to be standing near. “Change of bloody plan. Angus has – hello? Julio, you there?”

  “Hello? Hello Christ
opher? This facking phone …”

  “Julio? I’m losing you … Angus has lost his nerve. He and I have switched places. Julio? Can you … Julio?”

  “Hello? I can’t hear you? Say again. Plan change? Say again?!” Up the front, Julio was flustered, slapping the broken battery cover, banging it loud – one two – on the plastic dash. “Fack it. Hello? Hello?”

  “Julio? I repeat: fire the blank at me, understand? Me. I have the blood-bag. Not Angus.”

  “I can’t hear you. I’m losing you. You’re also target? You both have bags? Repeat, the battery won’t stay in the … shit. Are we still on? I’ve got T-minus three minutes. Hello? Christopher? Three minutes.”

  “I’ve got the blood-bag. Not Angus. Julio? Can you hear me?”

  “Got it, got it. You’ve got one too. Hello – ?”

  No.

  Oh God.

  Oh God no.

  I began to shake. A hard, angry hand slid fat fingers about my stomach. They closed, wormy and tight, slowly, slowly.

  No no no.

  Pins and needles biting, numb, banging and pinching my toes, my fingers, my elbows, I began to slide. Slide, out, out of position, up, rolling, out, into the body of the van. Driven by fear. Driven by terror. Breath short, shallow, panic closed my throat, terrified tears swelling, welling.

  “I can’t hear you,” Julio was shouting. “Hello? Hello? Facking battery, piece of – and he hurled the phone to the dashboard with a loud plastic CRACK.

  “Julio? You there?”

  “Everything a-all right?”

  “I think he’s got it. He’ll be waiting for us. Ninety seconds. Move, get back out there, Grayson will be panicking.”

  Christ, no. No, you idiot, I writhed. You fucking … NO!

  Moving fast, sweating, heart thundering, I rummaged my phone from my jeans in the puffing silence.

  C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon –

  “Laura.”

  “Call it off!” I hissed, swallowing a cue ball of sweaty panic. “Call it off!”

  Julio was bending forward. The click of glovebox lock.

  “Relax! It’s going to plan,” Laura soothed. “They’ve swapped the chest-bags …”

  “Listen to me!”

  “They’re out of the bathroom.” She sounded excited. Exhilarated. “I can see the three –”

  “Julio hasn’t got the message! Julio doesn’t know about the swap!”

  “It’s fine, Christopher’s called him. They’re both back at the table … Christopher’s talking … Andrew’s sitting … Just wait where you –

  I didn’t catch the rest, thrown tumbling backwards as I was, Julio lurching the van forward. The boxes and bundles toppled over, smothering my pitiful yelp. He was steering with one hand, bouncing the van down the alley.

  His other hand rested on the back of the passenger seats.

  The greasy nickel gun held tight.

  “Then if tha’s everythin’ gennermen?” Grayson crackled in my earpiece.

  “That’s everything. Angus?”

  “Uhm. Right. I-I guess we’re all set.”

  In my ear the three men were moving out. A scrape of barstool on parquet, coats zipping, the wet clink of drinks downed.

  Through the front windscreen, the van burst out into the main street with a blare of horn, watery winter sunshine blinding us. Julio yanked down the sun visor and hurtled the van forward.

  Crouched low at the base of the doors, I couldn’t move. Hands out to steady myself, eyes peeled wide like grapes, heart pounding with panic.

  I couldn’t move.

  In my ear, a burst of traffic as a pub door swung open.

  “Then here’s where we say our goodbyes, gennermen? You have the money, ah gat Mr Superman. We’ll rendezvous as agreed.”

  The van lurched left, bumping and bouncing. Julio leaned over, pumping down the passenger window.

  Through the jolts, I craned up a little.

  Oh Jesus God.

  Over Julio’s shoulder, accelerating fast, I saw the pub far ahead. The Atlas. Silent and still. Hanging baskets glistened. An A-board on the pavement, scrawled with lunch offers.

  Three distant figures circling each other on the quiet pavement.

  Briefcases in hand.

  “As agreed,” Christopher crackled in my ear.

  I could see Christopher, far up ahead. Holding a hand out to shake. His other hand played nervously across his now slightly pudgier-than-I-remembered stomach.

  “Here we go,” a voice said.

  Not Grayson. Not Christopher. Not Benno.

  “Here we the fack go,” Julio said again.

  The van exploded with a deafening blare as Julio slammed the horn and hurled the van forward with a whoop. I fell back, hitting my head a dizzying CRACK on the inside door.

  Julio’s left hand steadied himself on the dash, low trees slapping and whipping the windscreen.

  On the pavement, Andrew turned, face white with horror.

  Christopher and Grayson steadied themselves, ready for action.

  Julio cocked the revolver.

  I screamed.

  The van swerved, sending me tumbling like a mannequin against the side of the shell with a dull clangggg. In the rearview, Julio’s eyes widened, his jaw slack with shock.

  The van continued to pummel forward.

  “Who’s back there?! What the fack going on!”

  The van scraped the kerb loudly, hubcaps grinding.

  We lurched right with a swoop, sending me toppling the other way. Loose limbed, balance lost, I threw myself forward with a roar, clanging, banging, head scraping the filthy ceiling.

  There was a scream of brakes. Three faces in wide-mouthed horror filled the windscreen.

  I lost my footing, falling forward towards the peeling vinyl seats and buckled metal frame.

  A click of something. Seatbelt? Julio spun in his seat, turning to me as I fell.

  Right hand off the wheel. Coming round. Swinging. A flash of nickel.

  I shouted. Not a word. Just madman terror.

  The butt of the gun smashed me, broke me. Bang. A wet crunch, nose exploding hot coppery blood, pain shooting into my eyes. I gasped, winded and whimpering. Dizzy. My feet left the ribbed rubber beneath and I fell backwards. The world dipped and tipped, knees bending, buckling beneath me.

  I screamed and hit the floor with a planet-shaking clanggg, like a dull gong being hit with a wet sandbag.

  I clutched my screaming nose, blood on my hands, blood in my mouth, metal and blunt. Teary eyes flooding the world like dimpled glass, the roof of the van swam and splashed.

  Voices. Shouts.

  The sudden soothing blast of cold November air. Slamming doors.

  More shouting. In my ear. Outside.

  Everywhere.

  Drop it. That’s mine. What is this? Step away.

  I swallowed, brown, battery acid tang, coughing chewy blood into my hands.

  Easy now. Listen to me. Hand it over.

  I tried to sit up, tongue checking my teeth, mind flooding. Andrew.

  Please.

  Please Andrew.

  Don’t make me. Jesus they’ve both got one. Mr Grayson! Mr Grayson no!

  Silence.

  A long, woozy, sickly silence.

  I closed exhausted eyes.

  Then a bang. Loud and flat.

  A bang louder than I ever dreamed. Shaking the floor, shaking the world.

  And then another.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  I heaved myself up to a sitting position, the cold shell bucking and swooning, my head screaming with pain. I put my hands out to steady myself.

  My head continued to scream. Loud. Andrew’s name. Raw and thrashing and screaming.

  It took a moment to focus.

  Andrew’s name again.

  But it wasn’t my head that was screaming.

  twenty-nine

  “Benno? Benno?!” I whimpered, palms cold, tasting bitter panic. “Jesus, Benno no. No
no no.” It was everywhere.

  He was everywhere.

  Head pounding, nose throbbing, I fell to the morning’s freezing pavement, kneeling in the oily blood and grit.

  “Oh God, Benno. Benno, can you hear me? Oh God. Oh God.”

  Around me there was a bang as Julio exploded back out of the pub, wooden doors crashing around him.

  “Where is it?” he bellowed. “Where the fack IS IT?!”

  But no one was in a position to answer. The small band of people about him had other things on their minds. Other things on their hands. All over their hands.

  “It’s okay …” Andrew winced, angry and hurt. “It’s ohh-kaayyyoow! Shit, ahh, shit.” He sighed, licking his pale lips, head lolling back in Laura’s lap.

  She was cradling him, holding him as he writhed and gasped on the pavement, one bloodied hand pressed to the bubbling wound under his sopping shirt, the other scrabbling with her phone.

  “Help him!” she gnashed at me desperately, eyes wide and white. “Help him!”

  I stumbled to my feet, mind thudding, trying to take it all in.

  Somewhere a phone was ringing. The green Bedford was half on the pavement, driver’s door open, engine running, one back door hanging loose where I had thrown myself dizzily against it.

  Julio was in the kerb, clawing at his boss, who lay there, eyes tight, gasping in the gutter, a mess of tweed and guts.

  “I’m sorry. Chris I’m sorry. It all facked. I knew. I fack knew. It’s all facked up.”

  “Leave him!” Grayson hollered. He stood, pale and transfixed by the bewildering tableau, his fake gun still held out, mouth slack and pale. He looked at Andrew, writhing and bloody. He looked at Laura. He looked at his boss in the kerbside, dying and gurgling in a thick pool of blood and syrup. He looked at me, a face from the past, brain trying desperately to fill in the gaps. “Leave … Just … shit we’ve got to go. We’ve got to GO!”

  I meanwhile jittered like a marionette, spinning and toppling, the world whirling about me. A thousand things to do.

  Somewhere a phone was still ringing.

  “Neil!” Andrew rasped, legs kicking spastically.

  “Don’t talk,” Laura soothed, hand over the sopping wad that was once an Incredible Hulk. “Shhh, don’t talk, don’t – hello?” she broke away into her phone. “Hello, emergency? Please. I need an ambulance. Now, right now. A man’s been shot.”