Conman (35 page)

“Are you still on hold there, old man?” Andrew said, appearing in the doorway clapping the dust from his hands and wiping
basement
grime on his Abercrombie T-shirt.

“Yep,” I sighed. “But my call is important to them so I should please stay on the line. Oh, and this you’ll like. Am I also aware, as a member of their mailing list, that tomorrow they’re hosting the nineteenth annual London Collectibles Convention and I’m eligible for two discounted tickets?”

“How generous. What’s next? All these?”

It was Thursday afternoon. A quiff past a collar by the shop clock. The stereo crackled some MGM greats and two take-out hot chocolates sat on the counter where, long ago, a till once stood. A large tatty London
A-Z
lay flapped open, red marker pen wobbling across tomorrow’s route. On the narrow cobbles of Brigstock Place, the blue rented Transit that would follow those wobbles was hunched, back doors open, hazards blinking pink in the winter gloom.

“Those tubes there,” I said. “Plus the box they’re sitting on and that’s it.”

“That’s
it
? You’re barely a third full out there.”

“That’s all I could salvage. So until Wembley Arena holds its first annual Soggy Papier Mâché Convention, I –”

“
Hello, exhibitions
?”

“Sorry, h-hello,” I said. Andrew heaved up an armful of poster tubes and moved out to the chilly street, sliding them into the back of the van. “My name’s Mr Martin. I’ve a stall booked for the convention tomorrow?
Heroes Incorporated
?”

“
Stand 116
?”

“Th-that’s right. I was just explaining to your colleague, I’m not going to be able to make it. Something’s … something’s come up. I’m sorry. I was wondering about the deposit though?”

“
If you look you’ll see your contract stipulates that exhibitor
cancellation
notice is ten working –
”

“I-I’m aware of that. It’s just …” I looked up. Over Chewbacca’s hairy head, I could see Andrew, poster tubes under his arm,
chatting
to Schwartz from the bookshop next-door, apologising for his blocked entrance. “It’s just that I …” My stomach rolled over queasily. “Well there’s something I need to do. But I can’t afford to just write off –”

“
Your co-exhibitor will be in attendance though? Maurice Bennett … Will he be –
”

“No. No, Maurice and I … No. It’s just me. Is there nothing you can do to help me out? Nothing at all?”

There was, it appeared, nothing she could do.

I hung up and breathed out slowly, eyes closed, face in my hands. Somewhere distantly, Judy Garland was urging me to not only
come on,
but to
forget my troubles
and
get happy.
Easy for her to say.

The slam-slam of the van doors snapped me back to earth. Andrew moved back into the shop, shutting the door with a jingle and retrieving his hot chocolate while I showered him with thanks.

“What are old college pals for? Besides, I’m keeping my head down. Nobody at the office is very keen on what I’ve done with O’Shea’s capital. His short-term instant access account I told you about? Turns out the old bastard was
right
. Keatings had
every
intention
of getting as much interest from his millions in the three days as we could. Best I keep out of their way, so I thought I’d drop by. Any joy with Earl’s Court?”

I explained the lack of joy.

“God. This whole thing really couldn’t have come at a worse time, could it?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “I should move that van anyway. I’m blocking Schwartz’s door,” and I swept up the keys from the desk, getting to my feet.

“I suppose … Hell, I suppose no one would blame you, y’know, if you just …”

“If I just … ?”

Andrew looked at me.

“With everything else? The summons, the exhibition, the Maurice
fellow? Plus Jane? Your family? I’m just
saying
old man, no one could blame you for maybe just telling Laura …”

The shop went quiet. Judy told us that if we felt like singing, we should sing.

Neither of us did, much.

“Well …” and Andrew shrugged, popping the top off his cup and taking a sudden interest in its contents.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Hmn? No no, nothing. Mmm, this is good,” and he wiped a finger about the lid.

“Benno?”

“I just mean if you called it off. Told her you’d changed your mind. That you’d had second thoughts.
I
for one would totally understand. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You want to call it off?”

“
Me
? No no, God no. I’m just
saying
. If
you
did, I’d understand. If you thought it had all got a little out of hand.”

“You want to call it off, don’t you?”

“No, no no,” Andrew stressed. “God no. Absolutely not.” He sipped his drink and perched himself on the edge of the desk.

“Okay. Let me move the van,” I said and shuffled up the shop.

“Yes,” a small voice said behind me as I reached for the door. “Yes I do.”

I turned. Andrew sat there, chewing the inside of his cheek. Something about the look was familiar. A distant memory
stumbled
past like an Autumn wasp.

“I want out.”

“Benno …”

“It’s getting … I mean bloody hell. Bullets? Blood bags in our shirts? Phoney road-blocks? The crazy woman is fixing to engineer a
bloodbath
.”

“She said we wouldn’t be involved. Couldn’t be implicated. They’ll be wiping each
other
–”

“Wiping each other out, right. Like that makes it okay. It’s a gangland slaying. A gangland bloody slaying on the streets of Earl’s Court.”

The years had fallen away and the Andrew writhing in front of me was an angsty, socially responsible, beardy eco-warrior, with
a Greenpeace sticker on his guitar and an oil-soaked guillemot in his arms. The New York swagger was gone. The big-cocked,
big-business
big-shot had been substituted at the eleventh hour for his own ghost of lectures past. A good man. An honourable man. A man of principle.

“I can’t do this. Be part of this. I can’t.”

“Benno –”

“Performing lines?
Hold your horses old stick, I saw this first.
I just …”

“Benno –”

“…
That’s eighty grand’s worth of comic book. Why should we trust you with it
? I can’t do it. I won’t. Knowing she’s going to …” Andrew shook his head. “You might be comfortable with all this, old man, but that’s you. I can’t –”

“
What
? What does
that
mean?” I interrupted. “Comfortable?”

“You. Hurting people. Harming people. Leaving them … leaving them for dead at the side of the road.”

“Wha-? What are you
talking
about?” I said.

“I mean with your father and everything. It’s something you’ve been around.”

“Wait, you think I’m
comfortable
with what my father did? Holding up a bookmaker’s? Shooting that woman? What is it, killing’s in my family’s
blood
? I’m
more up for this
plan because it’s in my
nature
?! Jesus …”

“No,” Andrew said, confused, angry. “I’m sorry, old man, I didn’t mean –”

“I’m doing this for
one
reason. One reason. My family. Lana. Jane. When I think about losing them, when I think about going on without them? Me? Alone. Just …” The words caught fat in my throat. “Screw them. After everything they did, what should I do? Walk away? No. No way. Let them wipe each other out.
Lions versus lions is at least a fair fight.
Well he’s got a fair fight now.”

“I know, I know, but … God, it’s so … I mean,
road blocks
? What do
you
know about road blocks? Do you know how you’re going to disable the van?”

“No, but I’ve got the manual. It can’t be
too
tricky. Bonnet up. Unscrew the … the whassit. Disconnect the spark … burettor … cable. Thing,” I coughed.

“Great. That’s confidence inspiring.”

“I’ll manage it.”

“But she’s
nuts
,” Andrew implored. “This plan of hers? You swap this, I swap that? Giving her your
passport
for heaven’s sake?”

“She said she needed it. The guy –”

“She
said
?” Andrew threw his hands in the air like a Jewish mother. “Well, if she
said
…”

“Her plan needs a gun and that’s what the gun-getter wants. What do you want her to do? Offer him roller-boots and an Etch-A-Sketch instead? He isn’t Noel fucking Edmonds.”

“I know, I know. But –”

“The man sells handguns for passports and Laura traded hers years ago. There’s no
way
you’re handing over yours. You’ve got a wife and family expecting you home. I’m not going to be the one standing in the way of that. You’ve …” I looked at him. “You’ve done
enough
for me over the years. We never talk about …
it
, but –”

“Forget that. That’s not …” Andrew gnashed and writhed. “I just –”

“
What
?” I pushed. He wasn’t looking at me. “Yesterday you were
fine
with this. When we went through the plan? You said he had it coming.
Live by the sword,
all that. What aren’t you telling me?”

Andrew sighed, chin in his chest and reached behind him, tugging a buckled piece of heavy stationery from his hip pocket, tossing it across to me. I caught it. Crackled it open carefully.

“When I said the office weren’t keen on my initiative,” Andrew said. “I mean they
really
aren’t keen.”

When sitting down with the nice people at Pront-A-print, the marketing bods at Keatings had plumped for a classy, well-spaced letterhead. A rich navy colour on a weighty cream paper. Formal, classic, dependable. Just the sort of impression you’d want to create in fact if you were in the business of persuading wealthy investors to buy and sell expensive office complexes in the major financial capitals of the world. Everything about the letter in my hand said a long tradition of i’s dotted with creaking oak and t’s crossed in hand-tooled leather. Even the language employed had a whiff of brandy and cigar. There was none of that chummy, open-door,
dress-down Friday
nu-bizniss
speak. Nothing was being run up a ballpark, no hot-buttons were being pushed nor was anyone
blue-skying
a platformed networking solution.

No. Andrew simply was being asked to appreciate that (clear throat)
these are not the negotiations of a future partner.

“This O’Shea thing. Me moving his money. The private account. It’s caused … doubts.”

“Doubts?”

“My making partner at Keatings, my whole
future
in this
business
, is dependent on closing the O’Shea deal.”

“Which you’re about to do?”

“Right,” Andrew said. “
I’m
about to do.
Me
.
I
pulled this out of the fire. Going the extra mile like this? Opening this private account for him? It’s turned O’Shea around on the whole firm. Keatings’ greed was about to blow the whole shebang. O’Shea was in my office shouting, yelling –
I ain’t some fetlock-tugging farmhand.
So I come up with this account move idea and bang – he’s all smiles. I’ve not only saved
this
deal, but when he comes to unload the Holborn site in a year he’ll come to
me
. His millionaire golfing chums will come to
me
.”

I looked over the letter again.

“It doesn’t sound like New York know that?”

“No but they
will
. They will when I walk into the New York office on Monday morning with the O’Shea deal – the
legendary
O’Shea deal – done. When I show them his letter of
recommendation
. When I show them my red notebook full of all of O’Shea’s friends and contacts.”

The shop fell silent, the
MGM Greats
having shut off. There was just the grind of the wheezy fan-heater and the chilly sigh of early evening traffic.

“What I’m saying is … the deal. The whole thing? It completes Friday. It’s a big day. I can’t screw this up. I can’t let a single hiccup blow this deal. This deal is my future. My family’s future. Partner? Corner office? The Long Island house?”

My heart sank, leaden and dull.

“I know … I know what this means old stick, I do. But I just don’t know if I can risk it. There are escalating penalties for every hour past noon the money isn’t transferred. And you need me to
spend all morning dressed up like a geek, running around with a comic book in a briefcase and a bag of corn syrup under my shirt … ?”

“But …” I began, chewing my lip. “But y-you said Christopher was planning the con for the
morning
?” I eased gingerly. “Ten o’clock wasn’t it?” I was pushing it, I know. Andrew wanted out and had good reason to.

But I had a wife, a daughter, a business and fifty thousand other pretty good reasons myself.

“Your deal with O’Shea isn’t until
noon
…” I added. I was building a case with delicate, fragile fingers like it were a flimsy house of cards. “Even if Laura’s plan over-runs, which she said it
can’t,
mightn’t you still not be able … I-I mean, I understand what you’re saying old friend …”

“I know,” Andrew nodded. He looked up at me. “I know.”

“And … hell,” I grinned, trying to both lighten the mood and somehow get Andrew back on side. “What happened to my chess partner? The oceanographer with the Arran sweater and the saving the whales? What would
he
say if he heard you banging on about corner offices and partnerships?”

Andrew shifted a little uncomfortably, his demons waking, yawning, scratching, searching for their pitchforks and to-do lists.

“And God, what about
revenge
? Revenge on those bastards who forced you to grow up and turned you into this corporate machine in the first place? This is your chance to hit back at
them
. How long have you been waiting for that?”

Andrew writhed some more.

“This is your one
chance
. For the years of self-loathing. God, for the eco-warrior you never became. The people who ruined
your
life, ruined
my
life. Tomorrow they’re going to get what’s coming to them and you’re being offered a ringside –”