Conman (26 page)

“And the summons? This Maurice bloke?”

“Nine days. And between now and then I’m meant to be running a stall at Earl’s Court, which is a whole other set of problems. I don’t think I can afford
not
to set up. I’ve paid my deposit and I’ve had a van booked for months. But with only half the stock? I-I …”

“S’all right, calm down,” Dad said. He was thinking. I watched him sit back and go through the production line steps of another thin cigarette. I noticed the pale spots on the backs of his hands as he held the paper to his trembling tongue. Finally, smoothing the edges, he laid down the cigarette neatly on the table as before.

“Dad?” I said, tapping my chunky watch face.

“This Andrew? He that poofy fellah you hung around with at school?”

“It was University. And he’s married with twin daughters.”

“Well spoken?”

“Fairly I s’pose.”

“I remember him. Poofy fellah.”

“Dad –”

“Had my doubts about him. All that hippy stuff, weren’t it? Ban the bomb, save the whale, all that?”

“I shouldn’t have come.
Christ
, what was I –”

“Shush, let me think, let me think.” He balanced his cigarette on the edge of his lip and dragged a rough thumb over the lighter, sparking hot and blue. Dad took a tiny puff and sat back. “Now if I know felons – an’ there are one or two in ’ere who fit that description – this Christopher fellah will ’ave gone underground.”

“Underground?”

“Off the radar. ’E won’t risk stickin’ his head above the parapet for a long while. Not wiv’ you still smartin’ from the whippin’ ’e gave you. Which I
still
can’t believe a son of
mine
… I mean, law, didn’t you
think
? When this dame –”

“All right Dad,” I squirmed. “Point made. Can we stick to the –”

“A’wright a’wright, I’m just sayin’. If ’e’s as smart as you give ’im credit for, ’e’ll stay out of London and off the grift for six months. My bet is he’ll split your fifty K and live the high life for a while.”

“Great,” I said, a dark shadow rumbling cold over my spirit. “So what do I do? Try and track him down in the home counties next summer? My wife will
leave
me. She’ll take my daughter, my house,
everything
I have. Everything I
am
. I can’t afford to –”

“Wait,” Dad interrupted. He twisted open a bottle of Coke. “Wait,” he said again, brain ticking over. He slid his cigarette out of his mouth and slugged a fizzy glugful then wiped his lips with the back of his thin hand. “There’s a guy we got in ’ere. Fraud. Seacat o’course, so I don’t see ’im much.”

“Seacat?”

“Category C. Non-violent repeat offenders. They keep ’em
away from us Bs. They’re in G-Block, over the way. Where I should be by rights. But I see him in Chapel once in a while. Always bangin’ on about
next time,
’e is. ’Ow next time’ll be perfect. The big one. Payday. End of the rainbow stuff. Like a broken record, on and on. Not that ’e’s different to most.”

“I don’t follow?”

“The pot of gold. S’what gets everybody collared in the end. That belief that somewhere,
somewhere
out there, is the
perfect
job. The one mythical pay-off that’ll set ’em up for life. That’s what everybody’s hopin’ for. S’what brings ’em out of retirement for that one last blag.
Everyone
. The guys in hidin’? Guys tryin’ to
lay-low
? Pretty much every lag in stir has jacked it in at some point, gone the high road, until they got a whiff-of-the-myth.”

“The pot of gold.”

“
Right
. See,” and Dad leant in a little, checking over both
shoulders
shiftily, which to me seemed like the ideal way to get the warders bouldering over with stirrups and rubber gloves, but I was on his turf and had to presume he knew what he was doing so I hunkered down and let him continue. “Crooks are lazy. S’what gets ’em caught. An’ why the big one-off retirement payout is so irresistible. Oh they’ll make out they put in the hours of prep and rehearsal, but it’s all too much like hard work. They’re a shiftless and bone-idle lot in the most part.”

“Not like you then,” I said.

“Hey. Hey ’old yer ’orses there, Sparky,” Dad said, pointing a bony finger my way. “What I did? How I chose to live? That wasn’t idle. I put in the hours, ask anyone. Day in, day out at that bookies. Followin’ the tips, checkin’ the form. That weren’t grift, that was
graft
. I worked at it. Got it down to a fine art.”

“Until,” I said.

“That was a last resort, son. I’ve told you that. Tragedy. For everybody. Things just got a little out of hand. Run of bad luck, that’s all. I just needed to get m’self clear. Start again.”

“I’m sure his widow sees it that way too.”

Dad looked at me, lips closed and chewing small angry chews.

“Well that’s up to her,” he said flatly. “She’s out there and she can see it how she wants, lad. That was all a long time ago for us all. Another lifetime.”

“Gosh, well that’s all right then.”

“Time moves on boy. You’ll learn that one day. What’s done is done. Her grief ’ll pass. Memory fades. But I’m still ‘ere.”

I looked at him. This all sounded horribly familiar.

“You’re … Wait, you’re not – ?”

“S’all I’m sayin’,” Dad nodded.

“He’s right. Jesus, Andrew’s … son of a bitch is right.”

“Right?”

“Yesterday. Andrew.”

“The poofy –”

“The
poofy fellah
Dad, yes. Jesus. He said …” I could hardly believe it. But there it was, in front of me. Smoking thin
cigarettes
through cheap false teeth. “You actually think it’s
you
who we should feel sorry for now. Because you’re in here and she’s out there. You genuinely feel … In your head. In your
thinking
. The blame. It’s …” and I searched for Andrew’s phrase. “It’s jumped the fence.”

“Fence? What’re you talkin’ about lad? Who’s jumpin’ – ?”

“Andrew. He said you add
time
to any wrong-doing and the crook is off scott-free. And you agree with him.”

“Scot – ? I look
scot free
to you, lad?”

“Yes,” I said, almost shouting. “In your head, you clearly are. Free of guilt, free of blame. Just a poor victim of the system.”

“I didn’t have any choice. It was me or ’im. I was in trouble.”

“
Yes
Dad, but when most men are in trouble, y’know, they put in overtime. Get a second job. Bar-work. Mini-cabbing. They don’t …” I ground my teeth tight. “They don’t get up halfway through a family wedding, bloody
Fools and Horses
ring-tone going, slink out the back and hold up a damned –”

“
Five minutes,
” a voice yelled, echoing about the hall. There was a sudden chatter and rattle of carrier bags.

“
Mini-cabbing?
” Dad spat, wiry eyebrows flustering, not knowing whether to knot in anger or fly upwards to the gantry in surprise. “It would have taken more than a couple of runs to Heathrow and back to raise what I needed, son. No. I’m not proud of what I did, sure. And I’ll admit that how it turned out was a tragedy. A
tragedy
. But understand, these men weren’t going to wait around for me to scrape the cash together with a bit of evening work.
Mini-cabbing?
Tch. A mug’s skivvying don’t bring in what men like me need.”

“But it
does
, Dad,” I pressed. I needed him to understand. He
had
to understand. “It does. Week by week, putting a bit aside. Over the years. It’s called saving. It’s what fathers are meant to teach their sons.”

“Teacups, son. How many times ’ave I told you? ’Fink about it. If hard work never killed anybody, who’s –”

“– that clogging up the cemetery? I remember,” I sighed, shaking my head.

“Your Dad’s better’an that. He’s got bigger plans.”

“
Plans
?” I barked in surprise. Surprise with an unhealthy
full-fat
spoonful of anger thrown in. Anger at the relationship, that this attitude, this life had kept from me. “What plans? A game of cards then once round the yard before slopping out?”

Dad stopped, sparrow’s chest heaving inside his flimsy tracksuit top. He looked me over with his wet, yellowing eyes. I began to shift itchily in my seat. He stubbed out his cigarette slowly and purposefully in the thin foil ashtray. Finally he lifted his Coke bottle and sat back, holding it to his chest. He sat like that for a while, just the wheezy whistle of his breathing and the odd blink before he eventually sniffed, curling a crooked bitter smile.

“
You
,” he sneered, shaking his head with tired, cynic’s wisdom. “You workin’ mugs. Always first in line to dish out the sentence, ain’tcha, eh? Up there, lookin’ down on us
real
men. Us who said
no
to the commute, to the grind, to the forty-year slog and the cheap golden fuck-off. Oh, nice wristwatch there son, by the way. Very
bling
.”

I scowled, tugging down my sleeve.

“You ’ave to get
pompous
about it, don’tcha eh? Helps you sleep does it? Helps you forget the men like me with balls you wouldn’t dream of,” and he held his hands out like he were judging the two finalists in the
World’s Largest Melon
contest. “You’ve gotta make out you’re so much
better,
ain’tcha? Your little
theories
?
Blame jumps a gate
or whatever it is? I’m the
lazy
one. Well if you wanna talk about lazy, son, let’s talk about the second job you got when you let your basement get flooded, shall we? Let’s talk about your
minicab
runs, your bar-work, the night-shifts
you
were pulling down
to keep bread on the family table when the plumbing went
tits-up
.”

I began to examine my hands carefully, chewing the inside of my cheek.

“If you’re so bloody clean, how did this Christopher get his claws into you, eh? If you’re so straight, what was following this Grayson to the airport all –”

An angry buzzer sounded, making everyone jump. I looked up. Women were getting to their feet slowly, hoisting bawling
children
onto their hips. The prisoners didn’t move.

I looked back at Dad and he folded his arms.

“You and me maybe ain’t so different lad. Despite what you tell yourself. Maybe you’re your father’s son.
Juuuust
a little bit …”

I trembled, feeling my guts writhe in angry, guilty snakes.

“In yer blood, son,” he went on. “
Family
. You know what they say. You can’t change what you
are
.”

“No,” I ground, teeth tight. “Not me.”

“Oh yes. That’s what’s
got
you here. But, see, that’s what’ll get you
out
.”

“How?”

“You’re gonna have to play by their rules. If you’re gonna do this right. And maybe that bit of your father in you you scold so much is gonna be the edge you need. First off, you’re gonna getcha’self outta here, sharpish,” Dad said, stretching his back with a horrendous dull clicking noise. “Go on, you’ll get me in schtook. We ’ave to stay seated ’ere until you’re all clear,” and he popped the top of his tin and slid out another cigarette paper. “C’mon, you’re eatin’ into our association time ’ere. Shift yerself.”

I sighed and stood up, stomach tumbling when I felt a tight dry grip grab my knuckles hard. Wincing, I looked down. Dad was holding my hand, wet eyes fixed on mine, wide and shaking.

“And second job is getting my grand-daughter’s future back, y’hear me? I might not have raised the gambling prodigy I wanted but I didn’t raise a sap, neither. You’re smart. In a teacuppy sort of way.”

I smiled a little.

“You think about what I said. These men? This Christopher? Lazier and greedier than the fattest mark, remember that. So for
a
real
payday? A pot of
gold
? They’ll come sniffin’ around. They won’t be able to help ’emselves. Figure out the
details
yourself. You know ’im. Find ’im. However you think you can swing it. But
swing
it. Dangle him a once-in-a-lifetime. Something he can’t turn down.”

“I will,” I said.

The buzzer blared another angry metallic moan. “Thanks Dad. I … I’ll see you again,” and I turned from the table.

“Lemme know when y’comin’ next time son. Gimme a bit more notice,” he said behind me, voice dry and low. “
There’s a fellah you can pop over an see for me first.
”

I turned, holding a sigh tight in my chest.

“What
fellah
?”

“Heh-heh, never you mind,
nudge nudge,
” and he popped his cigarette in his mouth with a grin.

I turned again and followed the long slow yellow line out of the hall to the car.

“Payday?”

“That’s what he said. The pot of gold. End of the rainbow, way up high. Anything less and Christopher just won’t come out. Your go.”

It was four o’clock the same afternoon. Andrew and I were sat, bums cold in the chilly shop, hunched over a game of
Connect Four.
Instead of heading back to Putney to face an awkward
home-a-bit-early-aren’t-we
from Jane, I’d slung the Micra in the NCP on Brewer Street, hoping against all experience I might make enough from the remaining hour’s trade to be able to afford to pay its extravagant bail at five o’clock. So far, however, it’ll come as absolutely no surprise to you to learn, apart from Benno, I’d had only one visitor. A young man, after
anything
(serious face, intense brow, girlfriendless wardrobe) related to Robert De Niro. I’d been more than happy to show him a rarity – the US first advance print one-sheet from
Raging Bull
, illustrated by Kunio Hagio, only to find him less than happy to see me fish it out of a sopping basement bin-bag in six bits. So that was that.

Andrew, in
mostly
his own clothes as per usual, dropped a yellow disc into the blue frame and sipped instant coffee.

“He’s probably right. I don’t know much about it, but it’s not going to be worth Christopher’s team risking capture for a couple of hundred pounds. We’ll have to think big. Your go by the way old man.”

I scanned the red and yellow dots, tapping a disc on my teeth, just as I had done all those years ago in the freezing college halls, among echoing shouts in distant stairwells, the smell of tinny
tomatoes
and the pop of tinnier speakers crackling early nineties
compilation
tapes – a lot of
T
he Wonder Stuff
if memory serves. A hundred evenings had seen us, sat together just like this. Board between us. Chess,
Scrabble, Mousetrap
. Sometimes a game for games’ sake. More
often a coded approach to a tricky topic – idle chat about strategy and manoeuvre before something touchy was tentatively raised: missed lectures, absent fathers. Or famously one cold, third-year morning – where Jane and I had been all night?

Back then I had waited, writhing, for Andrew to ask what needed asking. To say what needed saying.

Here, ten years later, he still hadn’t got the hint.

“What?” Andrew said suddenly, which made me jump rather. “
What
? There’s that look. What am I meant to be saying?”

“No no, nothing.”

“
Neil
?”

“Well, I thought … Payday wise … maybe O’Shea?”

“O’– ? Oh. Oh no. No no no …” and Andrew began to shake his head slowly, sliding away from the desk. I began a bit of verbal scurrying about.

“He’s new in town,” I said. “Bit smug, bit pompous, got these millions to spend? Can’t we … I mean, isn’t there any kind of property …” I floundered a bit. “Not
scam
, exactly –”

“Neil …”

“– but a bit of jiggery-pokery you know of? We get O’Shea to meet Christopher …
somehow
,” I inserted a little limply. “Christopher brings some money in a bag, we … I dunno, get O’Shea to swap the bag for … uhmm …” It was coming apart badly. “
Another
… bag … thing?”

Another bag thing? Oh excellent Neil. Dazzling.

Andrew shook his head. Or was more than likely just still on the head-shake he’d started five minutes ago. Either way, quite understandably I suppose, he wasn’t having any of it.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry old chap. I
can’t
. Even if there
was
some scheme, I still couldn’t risk … O’Shea is my way
in
. The brass bloody ring. He’s been talking about offloading this Manhattan place for
years
. I think his father gave it to him in his will or some such thing. Anyway it’s got that it’s kind of an in-joke among New York agents. Every year he puts his toe in the water, makes some inquiries. All the Manhattan agents fall over each other giving him a valuation and then boom – he changes his mind. Cantankerous old bastard. Sits back and waits another bloody year.”

“But how’s this time any different … ?”

“He called
me
. Out of the bloody blue. I think I gave my card to his sister-in-law’s neighbour at some party? Anyway, as usual he says he fancies a change of scenery. Getting tired of New York. What will his money get him in London? At first I thought forget it, penny-pinching old git, but Veronica talked me into going after him. But
really
going for it. The hard sell. Keatings said I was wasting my time but I thought hell, why not? This is how senior sales executives become partners. Played golf, took him to lunch, met his wife, all the time pushing the agency. Old bastard signed me up at his kitchen table.”

“Congratulations.”

“Now all I have to do is bring this one home and I’m set. We’re talking share options, corner office, executive washroom. We can take the place in Long Island …”

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Forget it. I was clutching at straws,” and I waved him away, focusing again on the
Connect Four
board, dropping in an idle disc and trying to hide my absolute, crushing, flattening,
steamrollering
disappointment. It had been
all
I could think of all the way back up the M2 that afternoon. I’d mapped it all out in laughably detail-less detail. Some simple switcheroo that Andrew would fortuitously have up his well-tailored sleeves. Bing bang bong, fifty thousand, thank you very much.

“Plus O’Shea’s the wrong man anyway,” Andrew said. He sat down again and dropped in a yellow disc quickly. “Far too cautious. Oaf insists on having every dime signed for in triplicate by his lawyers. I’ve almost blown this once by rounding up the Holborn valuation by a penny. You should have seen him bluster away. A
penny
? But … but actually that’s all moot because you
saying
that has just made me realise.
Whatever
we do, he’s got us over a barrel.”

“Barrel? Who,
O’Shea
?”

“This Christopher. Hell. It’s going to be trickier than we …” and Andrew got to his feet quickly, almost upsetting the board. He began to pace urgently among the racks and bin-bags, humming to himself.

“You all right?” I said.

“Look, let’s say … let’s say we did try some real estate oojah. Some contract drawn up for some plot of land. A phoney survey, valuation, I don’t know. Five acres on the moon. Whatever.” Andrew
had reached the far end of the shop, hands in pockets, clicking his tongue. “Our problem is that if your Christopher’s an
expert
– done his research for a property scam
before
maybe – he’s going to see through us straight away, right?”

“Right,” I sighed.

“
But
,” Andrew said, almost before I’d answered, face screwed tight in thought. “Flip side is, we dangle some multi-million pound property swindle under his nose and he
isn’t
au fait with the ins and outs? Well, we haven’t got him
then
either.”

“We haven’t? But –”

“No. Because we know from your experience he’s going to want to find himself a mentor chappie first. Just like he did with
you
. Someone to teach him the jargon, lend him an office, the whole bit. Put up a professional front. It could take
weeks
before he’s confident enough to step up to the plate.”

“Weeks that I haven’t got,” I sagged sadly. My head filled with Edward. In three short days I’d be outside Victoria hefting his
suitcase
into the Micra while he sat bulging in the passenger seat drumming gloved fingers on my dashboard asking about
accountants
. “So you’re saying …” I said, brain lagging behind a little. “Shit, sorry, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying old man, if we do what your father says and try to draw Christopher out with the unmissable promise of some big payoff – cards, horses, comics, stamps, property – we’ve got to be
sure
of how much
he knows
before we –”

“
Wait
,” I yelled.

“What?”

“That’s it. The pot of gold,” I said again, brain flipping ahead fast like a spoilsport with an Agatha Christie. “I might … Wait right there,” and I got up, sending the
Connect Four
toppling with a cheap plastic clatter. I scurried out into the dark back office, returning with two soggy bin-bags, held high in two fists. I dumped them on the counter with a rustle, tearing at the thin plastic and ripping a wide mouth in the top of the fatter bag. A foul, wet, mouldy stench burped forth, biting the back of my throat. I took a deep breath and began to rummage among the sopping paper filth of mush and mash.

“What? Christ, what have you lost?” Andrew said, creeping forward.

I tore open the second bag quickly. Another green rotten fart guffed from within.

“In there. Get digging.”

“What am I – ?”

“A letter,” I said, fishing through the grey remains of buckled
cardboard
and posters, coffee cups and crap. “I
completely
forgot. What with everything … I mean half the time I don’t even remember I’ve got it, his lordship insisting it’s vacuum-packed and buried in a vault for when his grandchildren … C’mon … c’mon where are you … ?”

“A letter from
who
?” Andrew said. He was picking up on my Christmas morning giddiness and fishing through his bag of sopping waste.

“
A-ha!
” I cried triumphantly, unpeeling the soggy corners, browned from spilt food. “Here, here,” and I thrust both halves of the torn-up missive at him.

Andrew looked at me warily before allowing himself a peer at the sopping sheets.

“
Dear Mr Martin,
” he read aloud, laying the furry torn edges together. “
In response to your letter of the fifteenth, without a viewing, we are unable to put an accurate valuation on your …
Bloody
hell
.”

“How’s that for a pot of gold?” I said, breathless.

“Is this
real
?”

“It’s what happens when you marry the daughter of an Earl. Jane never really let it show when you knew her. At college, I mean. What with her purple dreads and stripey leggings. But boy, they don’t do things by halves these types you know? You should have seen the wedding reception. Marquee like a bloody aircraft hangar.”

“I wish I could have old mate,” Andrew said. He looked at me, brow crinkled.

“
Did
you ever get the invite. You didn’t …”

“I got it.”

“You
did
?” I said, which came out louder and squeakier than I’d hoped. “God. We presumed … Because we never heard from you –”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sorry about that.”

“I mean not even an RSVP? Jane couldn’t work out why you didn’t get back to us.”

“You’ve never told her about – ?” Andrew shrugged, hauling a wide hand through his waxy public school mop.

“I wasn’t sure if that was … I mean that was a long time ago.”

“A
long
time ago.”

“So – ?”

“Work,” he shrugged. “We were moving house. The twins,” and he sighed. “I’m sorry. I really would have loved to have seen it.”

We let that sit there for a moment. I thought I saw something happen behind Andrew’s eyes. Regret, was it? I licked my lips, thoughts hanging there like nervous divers.

Andrew moved on, focusing back on the soggy paper in his hand.

“So … hold up, you
own
this?”

“Wedding present,” I explained. “Well, an heirloom for Edward’s grandchild
disguised
as a wedding present I expect. But yes. Presented it on the day. I didn’t know where to look. You can’t imagine. Jane and I have been snogging out on the lawn …”

Andrew looked at me, blinking, all very faked interest.

“Well … that’s not … we were outside. And the MC rings his bell and we’re
summoned
in and Jane’s dad gets this drum roll from the
sixteen piece band thank-you very much.
”

“Bloody nora …”

“Everyone hushes up and he presents me with this framed whassit. A certificate of ownership. That and a safety deposit box number at some bank in the city. Big cheer, the band start up the theme.
Dum-da-daaaah, dah-duppity-dahhh
, all that. Jane had given him the idea of course. He’d just written the cheque.”

Andrew just stood, looking over at the Sotheby’s letter some more.

“He got it from a dealer in Japan I think. Mint condition, or near as,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “June, 1938. First appearance. So what do you think? Any better ideas?”

“Does … does
Christopher
know you have this?”

“Christopher? No. He never asked, I never said. No reason he’d have a clue.”

“Lordy …” and Andrew did all but wipe his forehead with a theatrical
phew
. “Well if this valuation is correct –”

“It’s correct. Matches the current
Overstreet
, give or take a grand.”

“Then, ladies and gentlemen, I think we have ourselves a pot of gold. But are you
sure
about this?” Andrew looked at me
sideways
on, eyebrows raised in concern. I felt like one of his twins asking to have the stabilisers taken from my bike.

“What? You think he won’t go for it?”

“Er,
Superman
number one? Eighty … where is it?” and he flipped over the sheet. “Eighty-five
thousand pounds
’ worth of comic book? Oh he’ll go for it.”

“Then we use it. What choice do we have? Like you say, comic books, memorabilia, collectables? That’s the one field I
know
I know better than he does.”

“But letting it out there, even just as bait. What if …”

“What if?”

“I mean he’s still the expert,” Andrew said. “The swaps and the switcheroos and whatnot. Even letting him
look
at it …”

“I can’t worry about losing it. I can’t. My
family
. Jane. Lana.
That
, I’m not going to lose. Not at any price. Life without them … ? With respect to Siegel and Shuster, thirty-six vacuum-sealed, full colour pages of wham-bam cape-pant action aren’t going to be much company. Price tag or not. I can’t see another way. Dad’s right. Pot of gold. It’s my only choice and time’s running out. We’re doing this.”