Conman (21 page)

“He doesn’t have any money,” Laura said heavily. “It’s … it’s a pose, all a fake.”

“A
con
?” The room swayed a little. I held on to Laura’s hand for some ballast.

“No, no. Not like that. A
bluff
. Just
pretending
.”

I heard the kettle click off but I left it.

“His wife
left
him. Months ago. Adultery. Cleaned him out. Lawyers took
everything
. The museum, his house, car, TV. He has a few thousand pounds, that’s it. He’s trying to get started again with it. Investments, you know? Collectables. That’s why he was so angry. Before …”

“eBay. Action Comics number four,” I nodded. It began to make sense. “The perfect start to a new collection. No wonder he
travelled
all this way.”

“All this way just to get ripped off.”

“God,” I sighed. “But wait, the half million? The pants? Christopher. Noon today, the deal? If he’s broke, how … ?”

“He borrowed it.”

“
Borrowed
– ?”

“Said he made some calls a day or so ago. Went to some dodgy club off Bethnal Green Road. Above some shop. Explained the situation. He’s borrowed the five hundred thousand pounds off some bookie for a week.”

“Five hundred …” I stood up, Laura’s hand squeezing mine, not wanting to let go. I began to put the maths together. “So he’s short … Wait, you spent a hundred grand in
dollars
. That’s about –”

“
I
spent!?” Laura said. “
You
told me to do what he said, take a fat wad, keep him happy, black four –”

“It’s okay, it’s okay –”

“It’s
not
!” and she tore her hand away hard, glaring at me, eyes wide and wet. “It’s all
off
. He’s threatening to walk. To get on the plane and go home.”

“
Home
? No. No wait wait, it’s just, no wait.” I put my hands down on the desk for support, breathing deep. “It’s … it’s just a hundred grand. Sterling, about fifty-five thousand, give or take. He can go and see Christopher with four hundred and fifty grand.”

“He
won’t.
That’s what I’m
saying
. He’s frightened.
You
were
right.
Christopher
was right. It’s all just
bluff
. He’s pathetic.
Scared
. He won’t go in without the full amount.”

“Okay. Okay,” and I began to pace. I felt suddenly damp under the arms, short of breath. It was so near. Three hours. It was so
near
. “Okay,” I said. “Okay so … so we call Christopher. Yes. Yes, we call Christopher. Now.”

An idea was beginning to slot together.

“Call – ?”

“Christopher,” I said quickly. “We call him. Tell him what’s happened. He’s lying on a hospital surplus bed in his flat as we speak, tubes sticking out of him all over, waiting for Grayson to show. We tell him there was a screw-up.”

“He’ll kill me. He’ll
kill
me,” Laura strained. “He’ll think it’s my fault. They said. That guy.
They’re not in the mood to write off five hundred grand.
They’ll pin this on me! I’ll wind up in the boot of some car. Christ Neil. Neil what am I going to do?”

“It’s … it’s all right. Listen. Listen, Christopher, he’s a
businessman
for God’s sake. We tell him Grayson’s come up short. Doesn’t matter about the
details
. We’ll say … we’ll say
he
put the bet on …”

“He
did
put the bet on.”

“Huh – ? Yes, yes I know, I know, I mean –”

“You think
I
screwed this up! I was just doing what I was told!”

“Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s –”

“
He
said put a bet on!
You
said put a bet on! If Christopher’s going to kill me then my last dying words are going to be telling him
whose
orders I was following!”

“Okay okay, you’re right, you’re right, okay. Shit. Look, we’ll tell Christopher to call Grayson –”

“From his death bed? He’s meant to be sick you said?”

“To check, to confirm, to – whatever. Get him to sound urgent, like something’s happened, like he really needs the sale. A bit desperate. Grayson will say he doesn’t have it all and Christopher can say that it doesn’t –”

“He
won’t,
” Laura shouted. “I tried this with him. That’s the point. He
won’t
tell him. He’s petrified.”

“Fuck,” I spat. I kicked the desk, mind hammering. It didn’t help. “
FUCK!
Then … well then why doesn’t he … ? I don’t
understand, why doesn’t he borrow more from the bookie? The guy’s lending him
five
, what difference does
another
–”

“He said they don’t know him,” Laura said. “They don’t trust him. The deal’s been signed, shaken on, whatever it is. He said he can’t go in and start changing things. They’ll smell a rat.”

I closed my eyes, teeth grinding hard and angry.

“So … so then I don’t get it. I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“Christopher just called. Just now. Says he’s spoken to him and he’s all set. How is he all set? What’s his … Wait. Why’s he dropped you off here?
You
don’t have the money. What have you … ?”

“I lied to him.”

“Awww for Christ’s –”

“I
had
to! I told him a friend might have it.”

“
Me
?!”

“I didn’t mention any –”

“ME?! You told him about
me
?!”

“
No
. No, I just said I could raise it among people I knew. Call in favours. My dad, my brother. I told him I could make calls.
Anything
to get me out of the cab. You don’t know what he’s like,” and her hands traced the angry bruises on her arms.

“Awww fuck it.
Fuck it!
” I lashed out, spinning in the small office, sending jiffy bags and pen tidies scattering. What were we going to do? What were we going to
do
? Three hours.
Three
hours.

“Neil? You listening?”

“Hn?” I turned. Laura was looking at me. She’d dried the red squinty smudges that passed for her eyes. Her jaw was tight and fixed. Shoulders pulled back. I got a glimpse of old Laura. Just for a second.

“I said let’s go. Run. Both of us.”

“Run?”

“Together,” and she stood up, stepping towards me, close. I felt her hands take mine, her breasts press up against my chest. Her breath was warm and sweet on my face. “Just … just leave. Run.”

“
Run
? What are you talking about?”

I didn’t get an immediate answer. Or maybe I did. I can’t be sure, what with the kiss and everything.

It was hard, fast and urgent, her mouth on mine hungrily.
Surprised as I was, I opened my mouth in shock, which Laura took for complicity, her tongue lunging in, meeting mine, dancing and curling. My hands were on her shoulders, hers on mine,
gripping
, pinching, nails hard. I felt her knee push between mine, moving forward, her thigh –

“
Jesus!
” I said, pulling away hard.

“Neil,” she said again, in a half moany collapse, moving in for another go. I straightened my arms, keeping her back, stepping away, bumping against the door frame.

“No, No, Laura, Jesus Christ, what – what are you doing?”

“I thought – ?”

“No,” I said. My heart was slamming slamming slamming like it would pound the print off my shirt. “No, Laura. Fuck. This isn’t … No, this isn’t going to happen. Nobody’s running.”

“You don’t want me?”

“What? What no, no it’s not – Christ, that’s … Jesus,” and I turned, moving out into the shop, mind thudding. This wasn’t right.

I heard Laura click out behind me in her one shoe, sniffing a little. I took a deep breath and turned to look at her.

“Laura, look, listen to me. I have a wife. I have a family. I love my family. I told you. That’s what all this is about. I’m trying to protect them. Provide …” I shook my head. “I can’t run. I don’t
want
to run. Let’s … look, let’s just think about this.”

“Then I’m going,” she said, turning.

“Laura, wait,
wait!
Just hold on. There must be –”

“I’m out of a job, you don’t want me, Christopher’s going to kill me. I’ve got no car, I’ve got no shoe. I’ve got nothing. I’m going.”

“Wait!” I yelled. “Just … Look, we can fix this.” I checked my watch. “You’ve got Grayson’s number? His mobile? Call him. Tell him … Shit. Tell him you’ve
got
the money.”

“
Got it
?”

My mind was spinning, clicking, wheels turning, pieces
dropping
into place like the
Downfall
ball-bearings on my shelf of games. Doing the sums. Adding it up.

“Half of it. Tell him you’ve got
some
of it.
Most
of it. It’s all you could raise. Tell him you got it from your brother, your mum, your boss. Something.”

“But we
don’t
have it. What happens when –”

“We can get …” I said with a determination I didn’t
recognise
. I found myself at the desk, on the telephone. Almost of its own accord, my hand was reaching for my morning’s post. “We can salvage …”

“Neil?”

“It’s not too late. We can
get
most of it. It’ll still … it’ll
still
add up. Call him. Call him now …”

“What are you doing?
Most
– ? Who are you calling?
Neil
?”

“
Neil? Neil Martin?
”

The voice was hard to place immediately, like a brass band playing
Smells Like Teen Spirit.
My head crash-zoomed out of its thick mist and suddenly the pub, Thursday night, life, was
clattering
and ringing about me in surround sound. Yelling, belching, till drawers chunking, fruit machines bleeping.

Twisting around on my stool, a tanned face grinned down at me. I blinked three times, blowing dust from the mental yearbook.

“Christ,” I said, his features pulling into focus. “
Benno
? Holy
shit
!”

“Heyyyyy!” Andrew said.

I stumbled to my feet, the room buckling and bending a little, falling into slaps and growls and gruff hugs.

“Good to
see
you mate,” Andrew said, gripping my upper arms and giving me a manly shake. “Bloody hell. How long has it been? You all right? You on your tod?”

“Er … ?” I blinked back dizzily, checking about my soggy corner table for a large collection of close friends I might have forgotten about. “Yes, yes. Just me. God, what are you …” I
stumbled
. “We were talking about … I mean Jane and I … just a few … What-what are you … ?”

“Back in town. Bit of business,” he said, jutting his chin out a little and tugging a hands-free wire from his ear with a pop,
gathering
up the thin cable. “Bit of
big
business.” He noticed me giving his garb a quick scan, dressed as he was less for business, more for a night in with Pringles and
Robot Wars.
“Oh don’t let this get-up fool you,” he said, peeling off his denim jacket. “I’m Mr Madison Avenue these days. Hotel dry-cleaners buggered-up my –
hey
! Over
here
!” he broke off, beckoning across the busy scrum. “Mr O’Shea? I’d like you to meet a very,
very
old friend of mine. Mr O’Shea? Neil Martin.”

O’Shea was a bullish, stocky Irishman. A whisky barrel in a suit. He pushed through the pub crowd and tore my shoulder off with his handshake, white eyebrows like two seagulls squabbling over a discarded ice-cream. He sat us down and got some drinks in.

“Bloody hell. What’s it been? Eight years?” I said. “What are you – ?”

“I’m with Keatings. New York,” Andrew went on, emptying his pockets of breath mints, matches, a Zippo and an old Bic before fishing out his mobile and wrapping it in its wire, laying it on the damp table. “Six years now. Just over for a fortnight to see our friend here,” and he tipped a nod at the squat, brick-built frame by the bar. “Mr O’Shea is selling his Manhattan real estate and bringing his dollars to a big new development planned in Holborn. I’m just shepherding both sides through for him.”

“Real estate? What happened to – ?”

“And what’s
your
story, Mr Martin?” O’Shea asked with a twinkle, returning with the drinks. He had a surprisingly high voice with a waft of heather to it. A voice more suited to hollering gibberish at sheepdogs than at shareholders. “How do you come to know this shyster?”

“
Shyster
? Ha ha!” Andrew laughed. Far too loudly for far too long, eyes flashing with nerves, which told me that if my old pal was in big business, O’Shea had to be in
huge
.

“Uhmm, University,” I said.

“We were down the hall from each other,” Andrew gabbled, sipping his drink. “Hung out. Played chess on the stairs, you remember? When you weren’t at the cinema. This man saw
everything
. Had a bloody great Robert Redford up on his wall for three years. Do you remember? Caused some rumours, I can tell you.”

“Yeah,” I sighed.

“Neil here was in the arts crowd. Drama types. That lot. They didn’t really have much time for us environmentalists.”

“
Environmental what now
?” O’Shea furrowed, shooting a quizzical look at Andrew.

“Oh a long time ago, a looong time ago,” Andrew soothed with a grin. “But bloody hell, Neil Martin,” and he shook his head. “My word. Good to see you, old man,” and he raised his glass. The two men clinked so I joined in obediently. “So, spill the gen.
What you doing with yourself for eight years? Running an Odeon somewhere?”

“Uhm, no. No, not exactly. I’ve got a shop.
Had
a shop. Soho. Sorry, you’ve caught me a bit –”

“
Soho!
Ahhhh, loik
that
is it?” O’Shea smirked, his gull-brows taking flight in a fluster of feathers.

“N-no. Nothing – Memorabilia. Movie stuff, comics, y’know.”

“Ahhh. Sure but Soho’s not the same since they cleaned it all up,” O’Shea said, drifting off. “Far too respectable these days. What happened with that little street I had Keatings look at not so long ago?” he said to Andrew, ticking him off a little. “Had my eye on that, I did. Going for a song it was. You should have been quicker with that, lad. Get me a valuation on what the square foot is going for now. What I would have made. Someone in your office is going to compensate for that.”

“Consider it done,” Andrew nodded, reaching into his khakis and tugging out a red spiral-bound notebook, sliding a pencil from the coils.

“I shouldn’t be the one chasing you up on this stuff son,” O’Shea said loudly, draining his glass. “Anyway now, big day tomorrow. I’m gonna leave you youngsters to it.”

O’Shea stood and Andrew followed. I watched them pump each other’s hands vigorously, shoulders jarring, exchanging nods and dates and figures and manly shoulder slaps, before O’Shea bid the pub farewell, pitching and yawing out onto the street.

Benno came back with more drinks, collapsing into his seat. The grin was now just a loose smile. More relaxed, like someone had taken the guy ropes out. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed his face. It appeared the jovial bonhomie he’d kept on the boil with his business partner was something he was having difficulty sustaining at length.

“You all right old mate?” I asked.

“Work. O’Shea’s … forget it. Forget it. Boring. Heyyy, here’s to
you
. How long’s it been? God, Neil Martin …”

I sat and watched as he did this for a little while longer until eventually we toasted again.

Drinks downed, and with a little shudder, shaking the office pressure from his shoulders, Benno began to relax a little. He
bullied me into tugging out my wallet and we compared pictures of wives and children.

A sudden, sick feeling struck me and I felt my palms drain cold.

Had – ?

Had Benno somehow heard? About the shop flood? On some obscure estate-agent blog? Got wind I might be in trouble and be causing Jane to look elsewhere? Did he still – ?

I mean, Christ was it possible he’d taken the flight to the UK to try to muscle in on his high-school crush after all this time?

No. No, he couldn’t.

Of course he fucking couldn’t.

Idiot.

I shook myself and breathed out, trying to slow my heart. What the hell was happening to me?

I slapped my wallet shut and laid it aside, Benno still flipping me through his glamorous life. His wife, sitting lit by a low sun on some sort of tractor in a wheat field, college sweater and all American teeth like a GAP ad. The obligatory twins in matching mittens, all pink cheeks in Central Park snow. Ben and Sandy, his two collies, outside his Long Island country house. The whole bit.

I looked over my old friend with tired eyes, looking for traces of the beardy face from those nights in chilly halls a lifetime ago. He was barely recognisable. Gone was the shoulder length hair, the knotted leather wrist bands and beads. Gone was the
sloganeering
T-shirt, the donkey jacket and battered walking boots, splashed with caked-in mud. Gone. Nowhere to be seen.

In the years since University, Benno had gone and become a man. Very clearly. He had not only reached that estate, but packed its boot with deck chairs and driven his family to the Hamptons in it.

Sitting there, listening to his stories, melancholy sidled up in that way it has and gave me a nudge, pointing out, quite rightly, that Benno appeared now to be everything Edward wanted
me
to be. Everything Edward wanted for Jane. Everything Jane
deserved
.

I flipped open my wallet again and blinked at the smiling faces, creased and buckled behind milky plastic. I promptly closed it again.

Benno continued. Here she is in Barbados. Here they are outside their new home.

He was a man. A
real
man. You only had to look at him. Man’s hands, a man’s voice and man’s shoulders, on which he
successfully
took the burden of a proud family. A family that he would never disappoint. Never let down.

Not like some.

“… I mean there were bigger places up there, sure. But we thought five bedrooms would be enough. The dogs like the space, the twins have their own room. Pricey, but then if this damned Holborn deal comes off, which knowing O’Shea … Hey, you should come for Christmas,” and Andrew closed his wallet and flipped his notebook open again.

“Still with the red notebooks eh?” I said, my voice cracking a little.

“God yeah of
course
. You remember. Old habits,” he smiled, giving it a waggle. “Batteries can’t fail on these.” He flipped through pages of scribbles to a clean sheet. “Let us have your number. I’ll get Veronica to sort out the details. Neil? … Neil? Hey hey hey, you all right old chap?”

“God,” I sighed.

“Heyyy, what’s up?”

“Sorry, nothing. It’s … Nothing.”

“Mate?”

“I just …” I began, but that one stalled straight off the grid. “I never meant …” but that one ploughed straight into the first one and the two were towed off in clouds of smoke. “You’ve caught me at a bad time,” I said finally. “I’ve had something of an afternoon. Culminating with the two hours I just spent with the police.”

“The police? Bloody hell, really?”

“Actually no,” I said, my head thumping. “Not really.”

The bank had kept me waiting in a variety of different-sized rooms, reading a variety of different-sized posters, a variety of different sized young women in polyester giving me slips to sign, exchange rates to confirm and my driving licence the once over.

I’d sat fidgeting on different-sized chairs throughout this
drawn-out 
tour, shirt damp, knees bouncing, trying to focus on the last anxious hour.

Laura had cleaned herself up a little. Said she’d better go and hobble along to the coffee shop. Talk to her boss. Explain. Try and get, if not her job back, at least her plimsolls.

She’d called Grayson from my mobile while I’d been on the phone to the bank giving out mother’s maiden name and date of birth. Even with the account supervisor chattering away in my ear, I’d made out Grayson’s yelling.
A few grand down
?
He wasn’t going in a few grand down!
This, punctuated by a smattering of ‘dumb bitches.’

But he’d finally seen sense. Christopher, bed-ridden, wounded and dying, wasn’t going to argue over stolen property for the sake of a few thousand pounds.

Finally, in the smallest of the bank’s rooms, behind heavy glass and deep locks, I signed the last of the bank slips and watched as another member of staff counted out the bills onto the desk in front of me. I licked my dry mouth and took deep breaths, watching her slip the large pink notes into paper bands, stacking the piles just-so on the table.

Thank Christ I’d never listened to Edward. Thank
Christ
. If he’d had his way, Lana’s money would now have been earning its keep in offshore funds, index-tracking unit trusts and all sorts of nonsense. Locked in and untouchable.

But as it was, by ten thirty-five, I was moving swiftly and conspicuously back across the squeaky bank floor, watched by a cluster of quizzical bank staff, a bulging Tesco carrier bag wrapped about my knuckles, out onto the chilly street.

The morning traffic was beeping and coughing. It didn’t seem to be moving any faster than I could, but what with the bag of notes, I felt I would be safer in the back of a cab, so waved down, address given and seat taken, I slammed the door and collapsed with an anxious sigh.

Holborn to The Waldorf was south, straight down Kingsway. Ten minutes, fifteen tops. That’d still give Grayson an hour to get over to Kensington. Plenty of time.

Stomach churning, I watched the traffic for a while, mind
elsewhere
. It would be all right. The team would be angry of course.
A few grand short is likely to piss off the most generous of shyster. But it was this or nothing. And nothing would be noticeably worse.

And me? I did some mental calculations.
Fifty grand to Laura. She passes it to Grayson. Take into account the exchange rate, my twenty per cent …

Ninety-five grand or so. Minus Lana’s fifty back in the bank, I’d be forty-eight grand up. Maurice’s solicitors, the bank? They’d be covered.
Just
, but they’d be covered.

In fact, all in all, I’d almost managed to relax by the time the cab wheeled to a halt in front of The Waldorf with a squeak of brake pad. Standing between a braided doorman and a large potted plant, Laura shifted from one tiny plimsolled foot to the other, bare arms wrapped around each other tightly, gazing out at the traffic. Her eyes widened with hope as she caught sight of me. She ran across the wide pavement to the kerb.

“Is it all right? Have you got it?” she said in a frightened voice.

I handed her the bag, the cab idling grumpily.

“How you doing?” I said. “You okay?”

She nodded little nods, blinking. Her face was washed, scrubbed clean, eyes pink and sore.

“And have you spoken to him?” I asked. “Grayson? Is he okay?”

“He’s not happy,” she sniffed, clutching the bag to her chest. “But I reasoned with him. Told him it was all I could get.”

“And the team? Henry? Pete?”

“I spoke to the guy in the lobby. Black guy. Pete is it? I explained what had happened. That it would be short. They weren’t best pleased.”