Conman (13 page)

“I’ve been trying to call. I’m stuck in … oh, it’s you. Yes, yes fine,” I said, chewing the inside of my cheek anxiously. “Got it all here.”

I looked nervously over the paperwork beside me on the seat, lifting the top sheet and staring at it.

“Yes, I know where I’m going,” I said.

Terminal three arrivals. American Airlines. 609 from Kansas SLN.

“Are you sure you need me to do this?”

“
Of course dear chap,
” Christopher crackled. “
Nearly there
?”

I took a look out through the rain-dimpled windows. The cab skooshed beneath a large green road sign.

Hammersmith. Hounslow.
Heathrow
.

“Arriving at London LHR at 5.10pm?” I’d said, flapping the
print-out
exactly one hour ago. “From
Kansas
? What am I supposed to do with this?”

“We think you gotta go meet Grayson,” Henry said, looking up at me.

“Meet him? When? What are you talking about?”

“At the airport,” Pete said. He checked his watch. “Ten past five.”

“
Me
?”

A morally flexible printer now busy inserting Jerry’s jockies somewhere in a Sotheby’s catalogue between Batman’s bat-boots and Wonder Woman’s wonder-bra, Henry had returned and we had gone through the game again slowly, walking through the store, acting it out, looking for snags, problems and potential
give-aways
. We now sat, camped out around the salty remains of our McSundayLunch in the back office. On the radio,
Gardeners’ Question Time
was drawing to its usual nail-biting conclusion. Christopher was out front with what appeared to be an eight-year-old in a Fisher-Price
My Little Estate Agent
costume complete with a fat Burberry knot and swing-along Audi key fob.

“The tale needs more,” Julio said, wiping grease from the tip of his gloves and lighting one of his foul Lambert & Butt-cracks. “A push. Convincer. Must be you.”

“No,” I said. I said it again. “No way. I’m not getting involved in this. I’ve got to …” and I flapped my hands about the shop. “I’m meeting my father-in-law at five. I don’t
get
involved. That was the deal.”

“You just take hundred thousand for sitting on arse,” Julio said. “Make coffee and lending us your four walls, eh?” The dynamic
in the room seemed to shift. I was cornered suddenly, looking down three barrels.

“Look, I’m not … that wasn’t the agreement, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Splendillously excellerful,” Christopher said, appearing in the doorway. “Bloomsbury’s signed and sealed. What news of our convincer?”

“And as if by magic, the shopkeeper bottled it,” Pete said.

“Bottled – ? I see,” Christopher said. But he didn’t say it right.

When people genuinely see, you’ll notice that they say “I see,” with a sort of dah-dum. High-low.
I
see. Like that. What you have to worry about is the reverse. What Christopher did. The
low-high
. The dum-dahhh.

I
seeee
.

“It’s a very straightforward play,” Pete said. “You meet him off the plane in a couple of hours, follow him to –”

“Wait!” I yelled. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Plans must be flexible, Neil.”

I looked over the room, my throat tightening.

“I knew it,” I snarled, more at my own stupid self than at the group. “I fucking knew it. Shit,” and with locked teeth and angry knuckles I slammed out of the office into the shop, where the bell was tinkling and Mr Cheng was pushing through the door.

“G’afternoo –”

“Closed!” I yelled, Cheng slipping off the step and backing into the street, handkerchief flapping.

“Neil, Neil, Neil, sweetheart …”

“Fuck. Fuck!” I spat, slamming the door, lashing out, flailing, kicking at displays and racks, head thudding. “Forget it. Forget it. It’s off, it’s over. Just – fuck it.”

I stood, breathing deep, surrounded by fading memorabilia.

Why
? My head thudded.
Why
? Why did I
ever
think it would be simple? That I’d be able to keep my hands clean? Hadn’t my father taught me anything?

Christopher stood by the desk. He examined the bowl of his pipe for a long minute, finally reaching into his jacket and removing his notebook, penknife, Zippo and fountain pen, stacking them on the desk before finally locating a book of matches. He sparked
one with a flare and lit his pipe, filling the room with sweet blue smoke.

“You’re a good-looking fellow, Neil. You aware of that? Your wife, Jane is it? Jane. Buys you lotions and creams I bet. Moisturisers, antiseptic sticks. I expect it’s why everyone assumes you’re a
homosexual
.”

I looked at him. He smiled gently.

“Of course all the camp kitsch and homo-eroticism won’t be helping,” and he waggled his pipe at the four walls. “Bulging biceps, sculptured abs. Gargantuan groins straining away in tight lyrca. It’s all a little Freudy don’t you think?”

“For the hundredth time, I’m a happily married –”

“Shush shush, of course you are, of
course
you are,” he patted, shaking his head. “I just mean you look after yourself. Your
appearance
. Jane likes you to look nice. And who can blame her.”

“Look, I’m not doing it. Whatever this is designed to do, butter me up, whatever –”

“You use a shaving foam or a cream Neil? Or one of these frightful fluorescent gel whathaveyous?”

“I have a father-in-law who not only loathes me but trusts me about as far as he could throw a well-paid divorce lawyer’s annual bonus. Which isn’t far. If I don’t go and see him and spin him some story about lost accounting books, my marriage and my life are all over.
I’m
going to do that,
you
are going to sort this. We had an agreement.”

“And so we did, Neil. And so we did,” Christopher puffed calmly, sending his brogues on a tour of the store. “I have an
old-fashioned
folding razor myself. My father taught me to use it. Can’t abide these new ones. Two blades. Three blades. Four blades. It’s like the old days of the bi-plane. We’ll have razors the size of Venetian blinds soon enough. Progress I believe it’s called.”

“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.