Conman (18 page)

“Are the rest of the guys from London too?” I asked, tearing off a strip of surgical tape and holding it out. “Lots of wealth around I s’pose. A lot of thingys. Marks.”

We were in the stark white glare of Christopher’s bathroom, getting a convincing-looking drip attached to his arm.

“I’m the only city slicker amongst us,” Christopher said, fiddling with a tricky tube. “More out of necessity than anything else. You saw those letterheads Henry ordered for me?”

“Letter – ? I heard you
mention
…”

Christopher clicked his fingers. “In the lounge.”

I scuttled through and found a plastic wallet on the side table. That strange feeling of teamwork, of
camaraderie
returned, just for a minute. Was I beginning to
enjoy
this? Being part of a team, a gang once again? I brought it back into the bathroom where Christopher was fiddling with his taped-up arm.

“
Maurer & Fitzgerald Ltd,
” I read aloud. “Insurance?”

“A useful method of obtaining an introduction. Offer a
valuation
, free appraisal. Gets one’s brogues in the door. The
letterhead
says Aldersgate as you see. I’ve found it gives it that little bit of credibility. But it does mean I need to be in town. As you are discovering, marks are a panicky breed. Always want a last-minute check, a last-minute review. Hence my need for this place. Cotton wool?”

I tugged off a handful of wispy fluff from the packet.

“Your big businesses are here of course, which is a plus. But then so is the
savvy
. Your city chappie is a clued-up fellow. Suspicious, switched on. Used to a little distrust. Makes things difficult. The home-counties, though? The major shires – Hamp’, Warwick’, Hertford’? That’s where the
real
juice is. Your mock-Tudor double-garages with golf bags and phoney Agas. Portly chief
executives
, rolling chins in cashmere cardies. There we go. How’s that?” and Christopher proffered a veiny left arm, plastic nozzle buried beneath cotton wool and tape.

“Very convincing.”

We moved back down the acrid hall to the lounge, among the rough towels and bleachy bedpans.

It all
looked
very convincing.

“Spending their weekends laying down wine and laying down nannies while dried-up wifey makes jam for the parish. Last twenty years in charge of some office or other. Never had a problem they couldn’t solve with the flick of a Duofold and a wave of a
secretary
.”

Very,
very
convincing.

“I sit down next to them in their local pub. Top up their pewter tankard, help ’em with a crossword clue in the
Mail on Sunday
and bob’s your uncle.”

The pills, the pyjamas, the props?

Uncanny.

“I mean there’s no way I can be smarter than
them
, right? No way I can be playing an angle
they
haven’t thought of? With all their wisdom? Hmm? Neil? You all right young man?”

“Huh? Yes. Yes just … just thinking that’s all,” I said.

Utterly uncanny. Boy, when these guys wanted to make you believe something …

“It’s okay old chap, just a few hours now. Pete should be calling
aaaa
ny minute.”

But Christopher’s voice was fading away. Becoming thick and muted. I could see his eyes shining and his mouth going
two-dozen
to the dozen, but I wasn’t hearing him. I was trying to stop the room spinning. To stop my knees buckling. My mouth from drying up, my hands from trembling.

“I …” a voice croaked. It didn’t sound like mine. But then I couldn’t really hear properly, what with the panicked slam of my heartbeat and the blood roaring in my ears. “I … I should go.”

“Go? No, no lad.”

They were in the shop. Pete. Henry. Julio. They were in my shop. They had keys. My keys. My shop. On their own. Right now.

Christopher keeping me here. Away from them. Away from whatever they were doing.

“Probably best you stay here, there’s a chap. Let the boys play their parts. Like I say, Pete should have spun Grayson his story. Bound to call
aaaaaa
ny minute now.”

Boy, when these guys wanted to make you believe something …

“Neil? Neil, where are you – ?
Neil
?” Christopher’s clipped voice hollered behind me as I took the concrete mansion steps three at a time.

“Okay mate?” the cabbie asked.

“What?” I said, palms cold and wet, sick stomach lurching as
he grumbled through the bustle of Knightsbridge. “Yes. No. Sorry.” I sat back on the farty seat, feet tapping, slapping out an anxious rhythm on my knees.

Christ. What had I done? What had I
done
? Trusted these men? Handed over my keys, my property, my
life
? They would be clearing the shop. Clearing it all. How long had I let them alone with the keys? Think,
think
.

The cab swung around Hyde Park and up Piccadilly.

Yesterday? Yesterday afternoon, after closing. Five o’clock. I checked the cheap Rolex again. It was just after eleven. Eighteen hours. They could have been in there for eighteen hours. Filling a van. Two vans. A fleet. All hired under false names, all untraceable.

Step one, they’d said. Locate and investigate the mark.

Stock wise, perhaps an over reliance on Golden Age comic books and Superman memorabilia they tell me, but otherwise, pretty much exactly what I’m looking for …

Step two. Gain the mark’s confidence.

Shall we say Claridge’s
? They do the most scrumptiful chocolate
cheesecake
.

I leant forward, cracking open the side window and letting a blast of drizzly air onto my face, breathing deep, breathing slow.

Who could I call? Jane? No no. The police?

Your character it turns out, Neil, is one who likes to fleece aged fellows out of their heirlooms for a quick buck.

Christ.

“Mate? Mate? I said I’ll take you up Shaftesbury Avenue, awroit?”

“Uhh, yes. Yes fine. Just … just quickly.”

Grayson. God, who was he? A genuine mark? I
had
been sent to meet him off the plane.

Not that I’d actually
seen
him get
off
a plane.

Shit.

But.

But no, Henry said Grayson had a suite at the Waldorf.

Henry
said
.

The grift is all about trust, Neil. No guns, no brickbats, no threats.

Trust.

We’re going to need a full set of keys, my poppety-poo. Each, I’m afraid.

“How far you want me to go mate?” the cabbie called.

I looked up hastily, eyes scanning the street. Souvenir shops. Gielgud Theatre.

Near enough.

I pulled out a handful of coins, shoving them through the scratched partition, some clattering to the floor and pushed out onto the busy street to a blare of horns and a yell of cabbie, moving fast up Wardour Street.

And it’s all right for you to skin this man out of his money because what? He’s stupid?

No. No please no Lord. Whatever I’ve done, whatever
punishment
this is.

And greedy. Terribly greedy.

Soho was at a busy standstill, the coughing grime of white delivery vans idling at litter-strewn kerbs, pigeons flapping and strutting. A distant siren.

I swung left onto Brewer Street, eyes wet with the cold London grit, running, body jiving and jittery, past coffee-bar tables and fluttering strip joint ribbons.

I was sorry. I was sorry. Just please, please don’t let it be me.

But why not?
God replied silently, in that way of his.
Werenst thou happy to see thy neighbour taken to thy cleaners big time?

He had me. Pinned me, like some celestial Paxman.

Jinking left, right and left again, I swung myself around a
lamppost
on the corner of Brigstock Place and slammed hard with a yelp into a black wallet.

A black wallet slung about the chest of a fat American.

“Jesus felluh!” Grayson barked. I stumbled backwards, hands raised. “You in some kind’a … Hey. Hey, wait a secun’.”

I blinked up at him, mind reeling and spinning.

“Wait … wait, don’t ah know you?” and he narrowed his tiny eyes, pulling his fat head back an inch. I backed away, mumbling, stumbling. “Sure. Sure, ah know you,” and he clicked fat fingers. “Didn’ ah … At the airport?” he nodded, jowls wobbling, pointing a podgy digit.

I could only mouth and flap helplessly like a dying fish on a wet deck.

“You wuz talkin’ ’bout the auction, right? That why yur here
too?” and he tossed a thumb over his shoulder at the shop front. “Well yur too late. Fellahs had ’umselves a robbery yesterday.”

“Robbery?” I croaked, mouth dry.

“Guys had the very jockies worn bah one Jerry Siegel. Made in Cleveland. Ones he wore when he was posin’ for his buddy. Ah saw ’em. Apparently matchin’ tablecloth juss went in auction in LA three hours ago.
Two million dollars.
”

“Two mill – ?”

“Two
million
,” Grayson whistled. “Some movie star bought ’em they say. Anyhow, ah wouldn’t go in there if I wuhz you,” and he began to straighten his shoulder bag, fat eyes glistening. “Owner guy has his insurance fellah there. Weeeooo-eee!” and he chuckled a dry chuckle. “Reckons the jockies would’a gone for near the same amount. All hell’s broken loose.”

“That so?”

“Anyhoo, ah got mahself somewhere ah need t’be. Hey, you know where …” and he began to fish awkwardly in his black bag, tugging out a greasy post-it. “You know where Beeth-nail Green is? That far? Cab take me there?”

“Beth – ? Uhm, sure, sure,” I nodded. “It’s a few miles north of here. Any cab.”

And with a nod, Grayson waddled off around the corner and away.

I staggered across the empty cobbles. Empty specifically of vans, trolleys, stolen stock or double-crosses. Head thudding, jittery with nervous energy, I peered through the wirey glass of the shop door. Pete was behind the counter, Henry in front, waving his arms. A briefcase lay open on the desk. Voices raised.

“
Look, I had it, I don’t have it anymore. Stick that on your liability form.
”

“
But in cases such as –
”

“
No no, we agreed. Way back when this was being organised. I spoke to Japan and they quoted –
”

“
Mr Martin
–”

“
They quoted three hundred thousand. Their figure.
”

I pushed in, the bell jingling softly. The familiar draughts of damp dust and decay filled my lungs.

“It was made clear however, on page five of –”

“No, no no no.”

“On page
five
, in light of the circumstances in Los Angeles, the second auction, recommendations were made that –”

“Hold it. Neil?” Pete said, catching sight of me lurking by the postcard rack. “Shit, it’s you. Christ. Grayson gone?”

“Just ran into him,” I said. “He’s looking for a cab.”

“Phwooo, thank God,” and the two men collapsed all over the desk.

Heroes Incorporated
was just as I’d left it. Nothing stolen, nothing missing, nothing cleared out. No empty racks, no empty walls. Just two men high-fiving each other and saying ‘good job’ too much.

“He say anything to you?” Henry asked, closing his prop
briefcase
and tugging off his ugly tie.

“Uhmm, just that the Siegel pants are probably worth around two million dollars –”

“Ha,” Pete grinned. “You should’a seen his face when I let it slip. You all right Neil?”

“Me? Uhh, yes.” I looked about the shop once again. The shelves. The smiles. Humphrey Bogart on the wall. Elvis pouting down from above. “I just … It’s fine.” I gave myself a little shake.

“Grayson say he was heading Kensington way to meet Christopher?”

“Actually I think he said something about Bethnal –”

The phone interrupted us with a jangle from the counter. I lifted it gingerly.

“
Heroes Incorporated
?”

It was Christopher. Where had I run off to? What was the big hurry?

I coughed and bluffed and laughed it off, embarrassed. Made some noises about an appointment that I’m certain he didn’t buy.

Upshot was he had good news and bad.

The three of us took a vote. Good news first.

Grayson had taken the bait. Now believing the stolen undies were worth four times what poor bed-ridden Christopher was asking for them, Grayson was absolutely clamouring to get his sweaty fat fingers on them and get out of the country.

So the deal had been agreed. Grayson would bring the money
in used dollar bills, to Christopher’s Kensington flat on the way to the airport.

In the shop, this brought on a round of dancing, another round of high fives and us inevitably to the bad news.

Grayson had moved his departure flight back by a day.

What fives there were, were now considerably lower.

“Tomorrow?” Henry said. He stopped dancing. “Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?”

“Henry says why –”

“
I can hear him. Pop him on,
” Christopher said. I handed the receiver over and sat myself down behind the desk.

“That gives Grayson what?” I said anxiously. “24 hours to change his mind?”

“Or to figure out he’s being played,” Pete said. “Shit. He could call LA, start asking questions. Some comic book shop, some collector or other. Auction? What auction?”

“I’ll get him to talk to her,” Henry was saying. “No worries,” and he hung up. “Christopher thinks we’d better get the dame involved again.”

“Dame?” I wobbled.

“Your beloved Laura. To keep him busy. Off the net, away from the phone. Sounds like she’s the reason he’s stickin’ around anyway. Quite taken his fancy has our little waitress.”

“No. No way,” I said. “We can’t. You didn’t hear her last night.”

“We heard her,” Pete said flatly. “This is a whole different
situation
.”

“Right,” Henry backed him up. “Last night Grayson was angry. He’d been conned. Made to look like a patsy. A five-thousand mile flight to buy a fake comic book? Of course he was angry. Jesus, who wouldn’t be. But tonight?”