Conman (36 page)

“And then what? Huh? Then what?”

“What do you mean? Then
I
get my money back, my
life
back, and
you
close your deal and –”

“And everything’s put right again?”

“Well …”

“This? All this?” and he plucked at his shirt with
contemptuous
fingertips. “This.
This
is what I am now. This is what they
made
me. Being the man who helped the man who helped the woman who helped the man get a crook
killed
isn’t going to change that.
This
is what I am now. Revenge isn’t going to change that.”

“Well,” I said, letting that thought settle. “If that’s what you
want
.”

“It’s what I
am
.”

“So Christopher wins. The bad guys win. All of them.”

Andrew stared at the floor, shoulders jumpy. I could see the muscles in his jaw bulge and tighten as he wrestled with it all. He looked up, eyes fixed, mouth tight.

“Revenge,” he said softly, clearing his throat a little.

“I know,” I said, nodding. “I know. It’s a dirty word. Not what good boys are taught. We’re meant to be … meant to be
above
it.
Superior
. But you think when a crook gets away with ripping someone off, he gives them a second thought?”

“That’s not the point,” Andrew said.

“
Mugs
,” I said. “That’s what they think. That’s what my father thought.
Saps
.”

I let him think about this. Let it sting a little.

“
You’re
why they get away with it,” I said flatly. Andrew lifted his chin, mouth tightening. He wasn’t happy with that. Not happy at all. “You,” I pushed. “People who say nothing. Who do nothing. Who
let it go
.
You’re
the reason all this … all this
crap
is called escapism,” and I threw my hands in the air, at the peeling posters and portraits. “Why stories where good men triumph and bad guys are punished are called
fantasy
. Because it doesn’t happen. Because good guys don’t take
revenge
. We don’t
fight back
. We don’t
punish
. We turn the other cheek and get fucked all over again.”

Andrew said nothing. He just stared at the dusty lino.

“
Geeks
, they call us.
Weirdos
. Ha. Us who like to be inspired, like to be lifted by simple stories in which good men stand up and fight.
Weirdos
.”

Andrew looked at me, then around at the costumed characters on the walls.

“Revenge is what they deserve. Justice. I dunno, call it … call it the law of the street. Eye for eye. Whatever. Tomorrow we’re
gonna let them do to each other what they’d do to us without blinking. And we leave them for dead.”

“Dead,” Andrew swallowed.

“It’s the life he’s chosen.”

Andrew looked at me, eyes narrowing a little. He was deciding something.

“Say that again,” he croaked. He breathed deep, chest filling.

“It’s what he
deserves
,” I said.

Andrew stood quietly for a moment. Then slowly, he sat up a bit, took a long glug from his paper cup and wiped smudgy
chocolate
fingerprints on his T-shirt.

“It’s
not
, you know?” he said flatly. “It’s not what he deserves. Him and his
type
.”

“Benno –”

“It’s too
good
for him.”

“Too – ? Being shot in the chest by his accomplice?”

“He deserves to
live
,” Andrew said. He was breathing deep. He took a last draining suck and dumped his empty cup in the bin. “A long, long life of misery and regret. Live with what he’s done.”

“He’s living with it now,” I said sadly. “Doesn’t seem to bother him overly.”

“Oh we’d have to do it properly.
Painfully
. Plan it out. Make him suffer.” Andrew’s eyes got distant, lost in the black thoughts of revenge. Revenge on the world that stole his soul.

“We’ve only got twenty-four hours, old mate. It’s this or he walks.”

“You’re right,” Andrew shrugged, shaking off the darkness. “I was just …”

“Tomorrow morning. We go in, we get out and we’re done. You off to your promotion, your corner office, your New York partnership,” and I gestured at the heavy letter. “Me back to my family. All over. Like nothing ever happened. They won’t know what’s hit ’em.”

Andrew looked down at his letter once again. He looked up at me. Cleared his throat.

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

I grinned.

“
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 …
?” I prompted.

“Right, right.
And it’s Mr Mayo, to you pal,
” Andrew smiled.

“
Bloody hell old man, that was quick. Have you got the phone in bed with you or something
?”

“Something like that.” I blinked hard, rubbing my eyes and peering about the chill blue stillness of the sitting room. Streaky stirred, waking on my lap and choosing that moment for a quick three-sixty and a ten-thousand mile claws-check. I shoo-ed him
ow-bugger
-ing from my bare legs onto the floor with a wince.

“
Hello
– ?”

“It’s just the cat. What’s wrong? You all right?” I got up, creeping with sticky bare feet to the sitting room door, listening for Jane. Down the hall, the mattress gave a heart-gripping creak …then all was still.

“
Glad I caught you. I need a favour. This corn syrup stuff Christopher left for me to practise with
?”

“In the chest-bag?”

“
It’s stickier than I thought and I’ve gone and got it all over the clothes you lent me. The bloody dry-cleaners have left me with just my suits until lunchtime …
”

“You need some more gear?”

“
Would you mind old man? Sorry to be an arse. Today’s going to be complicated enough as it is, I know.
”

“No problem,” I whispered. “I’ll stick some in the van. How you feeling? Ready for this?”

“
Pretty good, pretty good. Can’t sleep though.
”

“Me neither,” I said, moving back to the window, peering out at the rented Transit parked in the November darkness. “Been up since four. What the hell are we doing, old friend?”

“
Our bit. Like you said. Lions versus lions. Bringing a little justice to the world. Talking of which, I’ve had a thought. Made a decision about our conversation yesterday.
”

“Go on?”

“
I’ve …No, I’ll tell you when I see you. And don’t forget the clothes. I don’t think stripy jim-jams really say professional memorabilia expert somehow.
”

“You’d be surprised.”

Andrew hung up. Breathing deep and slow, I crept out of the sitting room, down the dark hall, under the suspicious gaze of Luthors Hackman and Spacey to the bedroom. Easing open the door with a carpety hiss, I held my breath and slid inside. With one eye on the soft rising and falling of the duvet, I pulled on my jeans silently, tugging a shirt over my head and sliding sticky feet into my canvas baseball boots. Teeth clenched, I then eased open the wardrobe and picked out an armful of my baggier, Andrew-shaped clothes: jeans, T-shirts, jumpers, the wire hangers tinkling like wind-chimes. I crept back out, sliding the door shut behind me.

I breathed out. Moving quickly to the kitchen, I fetched a
bin-bag
from under the sink and, in the dim light of the cooker-clock, shovelled most of the clothes inside, knotting the top tight. I hefted the bag onto my shoulder and slid out, down the stairs silently like Santa Claus.

In the darkness of the freezing street, toes cold in my thin
All-Stars
, I unlocked the van and pushed the bag in among the boxes and poster tubes. Easing the metal doors shut with a wince, I took a quick look up at the warm windows of my home before climbing into the driver’s seat.

The next time I saw my home, all would be well. All would be back to normal.

Please
.

I started the engine, revs bouncing loud off the quiet houses, ground the gears and slid out onto the morning street.

It was Friday. It was ten past six.

It was time.

“Jesus
Christ
,” I said as Andrew greeted me in his hotel-room doorway. He was in just his pants, a taped-up blood-bag and an anxious mood.

“I know, I know,” he said, taking the bulging bin-bag from me and sliding me inside. “This the Geek-Couture?”

“Morning gorgeous,” Laura said, appearing in the bathroom doorway and leaning against the jamb with a coffee cup. “Ready for a little payback?” She was dressed for battle. Boots, combats and a black vest, hair tied back under a New York baseball cap. Face pale, she was without make-up for once, save, naturally, the trademark vibrant stripe of red lipstick.

“Ready? No. Not really no,” I jittered. “I’ll be glad when this is all over. More of that coffee about?”

“You sure you brought enough kit?” Andrew said, upending the bag and tumbling armfuls of clothes onto the bed. “It’s just me we’re outfitting, old man. Not the whole cast of Revenge of the Nerds.”

“I wasn’t sure what would fit you. How’s the chest-bag?”

“Heavy,” Andrew said, holding my blue Superman shirt up over it, tossing it aside instead for a baggier Incredible Hulk number. “Feels like I’m six months’ pregnant. And this damned syrup stinks. Plus the tape’s taken half the hair off my shoulders.”

“Yowzers,” I said.

“And the bloody drawing pin on my wedding ring keeps – ouch,
bugger
– keeps catching on things.” He waggled his hand with a scowl.

“Put the gear on,” Laura said, sliding into the fat hotel couch, pushing aside Andrew’s syrup-stained polo-shirts. “Let’s see how you look.”

Andrew hopped about, tugging on one of my old pairs of black jeans, turn-ups grimy with basement sewage, before sliding the Incredible Hulk over his head, pulling it down.

“Loose,” I said, pouring a coffee. “Nobody tucks them in.”

Andrew stood in front of us, arms out for inspection.

“Not bad,” Laura nodded.

“Not
bad
? They don’t fit,” Andrew said with a squirm. “Under the arms? And this waist is a bit –” He puffed, breathing in a little.

“You’re a geek,” I said. “You’re not meant to care. Your mind is on higher things.
Star Trek Voyager. Battlestar Galactica
. What Wonder Woman looks like naked.”

“Blood-bag all right under there?” Laura asked. “Comfortable?”

Andrew adjusted it a little bit under the Hulk before miming a gunshot, bringing his hand up sharply to his stomach.

“Hey hey, easy there cowboy,” Laura said. “We’ve got three hours yet. We don’t want a puncture at this stage.”

“What news of O’Shea?” I asked. “All ready for lunchtime?”

“Huh? Oh, account’s all set. No thanks to Keatings. But it’s just a matter of completing and a telegraphic transfer of funds, making him the new proud owner of a hundred-thousand square feet of prime City office space.”

“And you, by extension, a proud partner with corner
share-options
overlooking Long Island. I guess congratulations are in order?”

“Thank you. But no.” Andrew was climbing into his denim jacket gingerly, standing in front of the wardrobe mirror. “I spoke to Veronica. About what you said yesterday? Had a long talk.”

“Everything all right?”

“I asked her how she fancied a new permanent houseguest. An aging, eco-idealist with a Jack Kerouac novel in his bag, a Bob Dylan album on his iPod and a Range Rover full of sick sealions. I think he’s someone Veronica and the twins would like to have around, don’t you?” He smiled the smile I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Are you serious? How – ?”

“When this deal goes through this afternoon, Keatings are going to make me a partner. And with a partnership comes a healthy bonus.”

“How healthy?”

“
Healthy
,” Andrew said. I watched his grinning face in the wardrobe’s reflection. “Enough to get us out of Manhattan and onto a boat. Well, a ship, really. Artic circle. Six months.”

“My God. Won’t …won’t Keatings mind?”

“Let them mind,” Andrew said. “Once I’m partner and their cheque’s cleared, there’s nothing they can do. Funny thing is of course, I’d never have been able to afford to do it if I hadn’t made such a killing in real estate. And I wouldn’t be in this bloody business if it wasn’t for people like this Christopher. In a strange way, on this – the last sorry day of the bastard’s life – he’s actually doing some good.”

The last day of his life.
The words hung heavy in the hotel room for a moment, stale and sickening, like old cigar smoke. We all sat and inhaled them in silence for a moment.

“Well good for you, pal,” I said loudly, opening a metaphorical window and squirting a metaphorical air-freshener. “Really. Good for
you
.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, old stick,” Andrew said and he turned to face me. I got up. Andrew extended a hand.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Laura interrupted from the couch. “As much as I hate to break up the shaving-cream ad’ here fellahs, it’s quarter past seven.”

“Hn? Oh, right,” I said and Andrew and I examined our shoes for a moment, coughing self-consciously.

“Now, you handled one of these before?” Laura asked.

I looked up and saw that she had an oily chamois leather in her lap which she was peeling back, unwrapping corner by corner like a picnic.

Christ.

“Er, no. No I haven’t.”

“Here,” she said. She had her palm held out, the cloth draped over it. In the centre lay apparently as much handgun as a modern passport will buy.

“Bloody hell,” Andrew whistled. “Bit flashy?”

Licking my lips and swallowing hard, I reached out and took it.

It was heavy. Much heavier than movies had taught me. Like a brick. It had a shiny, oily finish and smelled like dead batteries. I bounced it a little in my grip, fingers flexing over the wooden handle.

“It’s a good thing your passport was new,” Laura said. “The nickel finish comes at a price.”

“It had to be nickel?”

“Nickel is what Julio’s got.”

“And it looks like this?”

“A year or so older but otherwise identical,” Laura said.

“Explain again why Neil can’t just swap the bullets?” Andrew asked, perching on the end of the bed cautiously, fussing with the sticky-tape under his shirt.

“Time,” Laura said. “To remove all six blanks and replace them with six live rounds would take a good minute, even for an expert. He’s not going to have that long. Back of the van, glovebox open, swap, glovebox closed, out again. This is the only way.”

I looked the ugly gun over again. The six gold circles in the six barrels behind the hammer.

Soon to be just five.

I swallowed hard.

“Andrew, you have the receiver there?” Laura said.

Andrew reached into his denim jacket and plucked out a tangle of wire, unspooling his fountain-pen and handing me the little black box.

I wrapped the gun in the chamois and placed it carefully on the bed, taking the receiver and unwrapping the earpiece.

“Batteries are fresh and will go for six full hours,” Laura said. “So don’t worry. Keep it on, keep the earpiece in and keep calm.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“
Check, check
?” a voice crackled close by, making me jump a little. It took me a moment to follow the words out of my head, through my ear, down the wire to the blinking light on the receiver. I looked over and saw Andrew whispering into his pen with a smirk.

In fact, considering what we were about to do, the mood in the room was surprisingly upbeat. Energetic, bouncy, jokey even. As if we were preparing for a beach-volleyball game. Rather than bloody revenge.

But then, I suppose, we were all of us on the verge of
something
. Something better. Laura – final freedom from a life of lies, tricks and extortion. Andrew – a chance to begin a new life, the life he wanted, at last.

And me. In three hours I would be walking away with Lana’s money back. Home to Jane. To explain. To explain everything.

We charged ourselves up with a fresh pot of coffee and went over the play one more time, double-checking we each knew each other’s roles before Laura straightened her baseball cap and told us it was eight forty-five. We packed our gear quietly, solemnly, moving out into the hotel corridor.

Around us, guests were appearing from rooms, exchanging nods, hellos, rolling newspapers under their arms and heading down for breakfast. My heart thumping, Andrew shut his door and we
shuffled
down the corridor silently, climbing into the lift.

“I-I need the bathroom,” Andrew said, eyebrows bouncing.

“Bathroom?”

“I-I need the
bathroom
. I can’t
do
it. The
blood
, the
shooting
. This
chest-bag,
” and he shifted a little in his awkward clothes, smoothing the Incredible Hulk over the broad pouch underneath like an anxious expectant mother and shooting me a nervous look.

“You can’t do it?”

“It’s a job for
professionals
. You should have let the
girl
do it. You should have let
Laura
do it.”

“
Linda
,” I corrected. “Should have let –”

“Shit, sorry. I had it.
Linda
. Right, right. It’ll be fine.”

The lift gave a
ding
and opened out to the cool lobby. Watery November sunlight washed through the glass, over the oak and marble, the place bustling.

Laura and I hung back by the rubber plants while Andrew tripped quickly across the polished floor to the front desk, muttering his lines to himself again. We watched in silence as he signed a form, gave a nod and waited.

“It’s going to be fine,” Laura said softly.

“You know what you’re doing?” I said.

Laura nodded.

I turned to her.

“I mean you know what you’re
doing
?”

“Lions hunting lions is at least a fair fight.”

“Got it,” Andrew said, appearing beside us. He had my brown satchel in his hand, knuckles tight and white about the handle.

“Then let’s go,” Laura said.

We marched across the bustling lobby, through the doorman entrance, pushing out to the traffic blare of the busy street.

“Fetch your car sir?” a young man in a bright waistcoat bobbed on the steps.

He hesitated a moment, looking over the three of us. Laura in her GI Jane utility gear, Andrew in soggy-bottomed, ill-fitting jeans, brogues and a strangely lumpy Hulk T-shirt. And me, jittering and twitching between the pair of them. I handed him the van keys and he slid off the steps slowly before scuttling off to the parking bay.

“Taxi!” Laura hollered, a cab shutting off its yellow light and
peeling out from the rank to stop at our feet. Laura cranked open the back door.