Conman (30 page)

The cab wheeled round onto Wardour Street. We were a minute away.

Or let them have gone. God yes. Left him to finish his coffee. Let this have been stage one. The long con. Stage one of ten. Just laying the groundwork. 

We turned onto Lexington Street.

“Here is it?” the cabbie said, slowing.

“
No!
” I yelped, sliding towards the scratchy partition. “Sorry, can you … can you just drive past slowly, I … Just, I need to see if someone’s …”

“You’re the boss,” he said, and the cab continued its crawl,
The Crib
sliding towards us slowly. Hunched down, I peered out through the side window as we passed the restaurant.

Their table was empty.

Empty.

“All right?” the cabbie said.

“Shit,” I murmured. “Shit, no.” The cab interior began to swim.

Andrew.

Andrew couldn’t have …

No. No, don’t be …

“Stop. Please, stop,” a voice said, my voice said, distant, miles away. “Stop the cab.”

The cab didn’t stop. The cab began to pick up speed.

“
Stop the cab,
” I said loudly. Please … please no.

“I’ve gotta turn ’round ’ere. ‘Old on …”

“
STOP!
” I screamed, slamming my hand against the partition hard. The cab lurched and I slipped from the seat, dizzy, heart pounding. My hands skittered about the latch.

“Oi, easy there –”

The lock caught, the door swinging wide, cold air and traffic loud in my face as I fell forwards onto the crunchy street.

No. No he couldn’t.

I slammed down the street, hands shaking, throat burning, mind mad mad mad with fear, crossing side streets with bounding steps until I skidded up to the oak and chrome front.

Pressing myself against the glass, eyes pulled back wide, I scanned the table. Scanned all the tables until I was sure.

They’d gone. Christopher, Laura, Henry, Andrew and my comic book.

They’d all gone.

“You bastard. You complete … Well bastard about covers it.”

“You got my note then. Come in, come in.”

In
was a W1 hotel room and a pretty damned swanky one at that. Fat furniture, fat lamps and a fat sprawling bed, the whole room looked like it had enjoyed something of a Christmas
blow-out
and then posed itself in front of a funhouse mirror.

The
bastard
was Andrew.

“Yes I got your note,” I said, sliding in jumpily. It had been something of an anxious journey over. “The blond fellow, the maître d’? He came out and handed it to me on a silver dish. But not until he’d watched me whirl about in a panic on the
pavement
for five minutes. Christ, I thought you’d … I don’t know
what
I thought.”

“You get to Holborn all right? See O’Shea? Sorry about sending you off like that. S’just I promised him the artist’s impression and he –”

“It’s fine, fine. Christ, I gotta sit down …” I wandered about the huge room, among side tables and regency armchairs, trying to get my breathing back in order, finally sinking into the folds of the fat couch.

“I had to leave. Christopher, Laura,
everyone
. They were all heading out, I couldn’t just sit there.”

“It’s all right,” I said, dragging my hands over my tired face. “What happened? I saw Henry arrive and Julio in the car waiting for him. Did they come over to the table?”

Andrew cracked a couple of mini-bar Cokes, perched on the end of the bed and began to explain how the coffee course had panned out. He said something about Laura. Something about Henry. And he might have added something about after dinner mints too, but to tell you the truth, my mind found itself suddenly elsewhere.

Andrew knowing me as he did however, didn’t take long to notice.

“It’s in the bathroom,” he said.

“Hn? What, sorry?” I blinked.

“What you’ve been sitting there looking about the room for? It’s safe. I hid it in the bathroom.”

“I wasn’t …” The game was up. “Sorry, I …”

“Go, take a look,” he said.

I sat on the couch for an awkward moment, wanting to tell him not to be silly. That if that’s where he’d put it, then that’s where it was. Hell, I didn’t need to check. I trusted him. Weren’t we in this together? God, if I couldn’t trust Benno, a friend from a decade back, a guy I’d virtually lived in the pocket of for three whole years then what the hell was going on?

Like I said. What I
wanted
to tell him.

But
sorry
is what I said and, hauling myself out of the squashy couch, I scuttled through into the echoey en suite where I found my satchel, wrapped in a robe, under a pile of towels.

“
I don’t blame you old man,
” Andrew called through, his voice sad and tired. “
Really. I don’t
.”

And I knew he didn’t. Because Andrew understood. He
understood
what men like Christopher did to you. What they’d done to
him
all those years ago. The way they spoiled you. Ruined you. Left you to a life of double-checking your change, double-checking your friends.

I brought the satchel out into the lounge area and busied myself with the clips and clasps, sliding out the firm velvet pouch
carefully
and peering into its darkness.
Action Comics
. June 1936. The thin, crinkled paper was faded, the bold red ink washed salmony by a lifetime of All-American sunshine. Around the rusty staples, the paper furred and pulled, the corners dog-eared and thumbed behind its plastic Mylar sleeve. All present and correct. I allowed myself a relieved sigh.

“Bastard thought all his Christmases had come at once,” Andrew said. “You should have seen him pawing at it, trying to be all blasé? But I swear his eyes were spinning round like a one-armed-bloody bandit. Ding ding ding! Jackpot.”

“He didn’t suggest you leave it with him? Nothing shifty like that?”

“Nope. Whole thing was on the level. If I didn’t know who they were, I’d have sworn it was legit. Until the Aussie shows up that is.”

“Henry?” I tucked the pouch away and slid the satchel behind a plump embroidered cushion.

“Very shifty. Far too shifty to be just shifty, if you know what I mean.”

“Right. Absolutely. I mean … nope, sorry, what?”

“Henry wasn’t some bad grifter blowing his cover,” Andrew said, swigging his Coke. “He was
playing
it shifty. All backwards glances and hushed voices. If he’d slunk in on his stomach in a black balaclava with suckers on his hands and a safe-cracking kit on his belt, he would have looked less suspicious.”

“And who was he playing? Another insurance man?”

“You tell me. He sidled up, handed Christopher this fat,
wad-of-cash-sized
envelope and thanked them both for a job well done.”

“A job?”

“That was all.
A job well done.
A tap of the nose, a winkity wink and then he slides on out to his Merc.”

“Did you ask … ?”

“I did. I figured they were waiting for me to.”

“And?”

“
Another time perhaps my dear,
” Andrew said in Christopher’s oiliest voice.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Andrew drained his can and crumpled it in his fist. “
Another time perhaps.
Then it was all mints and cheque-please and off we went.”

I sat down on the fat couch with a sigh. Andrew watched me from the edge of the bed for a quiet moment.

“This is a familiar sight, eh?” he smiled eventually.

He was right. Replace the dull hotel water-colours with a
Blues Brothers
poster and the laminated room service guide with a back issue of
Melody Maker
and we could have been back in our halls of residence. One on the bed, one in a chair. Talking it out. Talking it through. Our fathers, our friends, our future.

“I don’t know what the bloody hell they’re up to,” Andrew said, moving on.

“Laura didn’t let up?”

“Boy oh boy, what she can’t do with those toes of hers,” Andrew said with a shake of the head and a less than discreet
adjust-of-the-groin.
“It was like she was trying to solve a Rubik’s cube down there. Christ I almost tipped the bloody table over. I was trying to listen to Christopher, keep one eye on the satchel and one eye on the Aussie, all the while she’s licking butter off the asparagus and making these
mmmmm
noises? I mean steady on. Where I come from, women like that are usually accompanied by a five dollar a minute premium-rate phone bill.”

“All part of their plan, y’think?”

“I don’t know. It’s what I thought to
begin
with,” Andrew said, getting up and tugging off his tie. “But it was almost like Christopher didn’t approve. He kept shooting her these looks, muttering behind his menu. Like she was his teenage daughter or something. Maybe … ? Oh I don’t know,” he shrugged, moving over to the large mirror over the dressing table. He peered in closely, smoothing his clean chin, pushing his hair from his face.

“What? What’s that?
Maybe
… ?”

“It
could
be, of course, that she was just …” He stood back, checking his reflection again. One profile, then the other. “I mean … ?”

“Benno, old chap. You’ve always been a handsome devil. Even ten years ago when you had plankton growing in your beard. And yes, now you’re a New York big shot with the suits and the
shoulders
, but really …”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Shut-up. I’m just
saying
, it didn’t seem to be part of the script. It is
possible
, y’know.”

“That you’re so irresistible she’d put an eighty-grand con at risk?”

“Well I don’t know, do I? I’m just telling you what …
shit!
”

We both stopped and listened.

A hurried knuckle knocked on his door again. We exchanged glances.

“
Room service
?” I whispered. “Maybe they’ve sorted out your laundry?”

“Could be. Yes, yes, bound to be. ’Bout time,” and Andrew moved over to the door. “It hasn’t been adding to O’Shea’s
confidence
in my negotiating skills, having me turn up for meetings in a New York Mets sweatshirt.”

“Unless you’re right of course and it’s Laura,” I said, sitting back, allowing myself a small smile. “Unable to keep you from her pants for a moment longer.”

Andrew peered through the spyhole.

And then he turned back towards me, face pale and slack.

“No,” I said.

“She’s outside. She’s outside the room. Now.”

The next thirty seconds are currently appearing on a seaside summer-season stage near you under the direction of Ray Cooney and the title of “
What Ho, Matron, You’re Sitting On My Collectables” (AKA Capes, Pants and Boompsie-Daisy!
)

I legged it about the room, elbows akimbo, Andrew hissing hiding-place suggestions at me and trying to get his hair tidy. We shoved the satchel back into the bathroom hurriedly, stacking tumbling towels on top before remembering it was meant to be Andrew’s anyway and positioning it as casually as we could on the bed.

“
Underneath
,” Andrew hissed, grabbing my arm.

There was another knock.

“One second!” he shouted. “
Underneath
.”

“
The bed?!
I’m not hiding under the bed. For Chrissakes, I’ll … I’ll hide in the bathroom.
”

“
She might need the bathroom. Go, under the bed. Quick.
”

“Fuck it,” I said and dropped awkwardly to the carpet in a tangle of unsupple limbs. I began to feed myself in feet first like a letter into a fax machine, pile burning my elbows.

“
What can she want
?”

“
Lord knows,
” Andrew said. “
You under
?”

Chest tight, chin burning on the carpet, head jammed in the dusty darkness beneath the wooden frame, my Adam’s apple
somewhere
behind my eyes, I gulped in the affirmative and watched Andrew’s twitching ankles and shoes move to the door in widescreen letterbox format.

A click of the latch and the bottom of the door opened, Laura’s shoes and slim ankles waiting politely. Her feet moved in, Andrew’s
stepping back to let them past but past didn’t seem to be their agenda. In fact, they all met in something of a four-shoe pile-up, brogues and heels head on, then on-top of each other, then side to side in a clash of leather, Laura’s handbag dropping to the floor.

High above me, out of sight, Andrew’s voice was that of a
well-spoken
man with his mouth full. Full, I could only presume of Laura. Meanwhile, at my level, the four feet stumbled clumsily in urgent circles over towards the wall, into the dark-wood mini-bar with a loud musical crash. Then like some kind of foot-fetish’s pinball machine, they rebounded back, spinning, stumbling over towards me and then abruptly all four disappeared.

No. Oh God no.

The mattress slammed down hard, thudding my head into the rough carpet, banging my chin and giving me a jawful of fluff. I shut my eyes as the world squeaked and crushed around me and I got a sudden understanding of what the life of an accordion must be like. With a crackly hiss, one of Laura’s heels tumbled to the floor, followed quickly by another, landing inches from my face. In the darkness I could make out the faded label inside. A size five, manufactured by the nice people at Office. Andrew, it turned out two thuds later, favoured Church’s size elevens.

And then as hastily as it had started, suddenly it was all over. There was the mumbled sound of apologies, a
bouncy-bouncy-squeak
as bodies edged quickly from the bed and then Laura’s feet returned. They seemed smaller, shier suddenly, toes curling in little steps.

“I-I … I’m sorry,” she said, far above me. “I … I can’t do this. I …
shit
.”

Squeaky-squeaky and then Andrew’s black socks landed flat by my face.

“Is everything all right? What’s … I don’t understand?”

Laura’s feet moved away, the handbag lifting out of sight, Andrew continuing to ask woozy, confusey, mid-coital questions. There was the snap of a lighter and the warm smell of cigarette smoke as Laura stumbled away across the carpet to the bathroom.

“Linda?” Andrew called out. The door slammed shut.

I breathed out, shifting uncomfortably in my spring and wool sandwich.

“
Benno?
” I hissed. “
Psssst. Benno? What’s going on
?”

“
Buggered if I know,
” his voice whispered back. His socks paced about the room anxiously. “
One minute she’s all over me then suddenly she breaks away saying she can’t do it. Something about it not being … Wait.
”

The bathroom door opened and Laura’s stockinged feet emerged. Baby steps, frightened, sticking close to the wall.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I never should have … Forget I came. I can’t …” Her voice was edgy. Tearful.

“Are you okay?” Andrew asked gently. His feet moved over to her, soft on the carpet.

“I’m fine,” Laura sniffed. “I’m fine. I mean I’m
screwed
,
obviously
. But
apart
from that … Just
peachy
. Christ …”

“Linda, this … all this. Is it
me
? I –”

“My name’s not Linda. Okay? You can stop calling me that. None of this is what you … My name’s not Linda.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not Linda. He isn’t Fitzgerald. To tell you the truth none of us know
who
he is. There’s no valuation company, no offices and we don’t know shit about antiques, get it? It’s … Look, you’re a nice guy, okay? But you’ve just fallen in with the wrong people. It’s nothing personal.
Christ
. What am I
doing
?”

I could hear her puffing angrily on her cigarette. What the
hell
was going on?

“Hold on a jiffy. You’re saying
what
? Your website … ?”

“There’s no website,” Laura said. “There’s nothing. Just a scam.”

“
Scam
?”

Laura sighed.

“How do I … ? Look, the man you met today? His name is Christopher. Or that’s the name he goes by anyway. His team. Me, Henry, Julio, the others. We just go where he tells us to go, wear what he tells us to wear,” and she kicked out at her shoes, sending them tumbling across the carpet. “Fuck who he tells us to fuck. It’s a scam. A con game. A grift. It’s what we do. We get guys off the net. Bait a hook and reel you in. Christopher spins a line, I stick my toes in your crotch, take you to bed, make all the right noises. It’s all just prep to keep you on a short leash.”