Free Conman by Richard Asplin Page B

the table.
    “Ow! Uhmm, maybe. Okay, yes,” I said. “Look, what is – ?”
    “You better do the deal though mate,” Scott interrupted, handing the watch over. He was right. It was made by the nice people at Rolex and had the easy weight of a housebrick. “No bloke’s gonna truss’ me are they. Fink I ’arf inched it or summink. Nahh, you’re the gent . Best you try an’ flog it. See if you can get two ’undred. Then we’ll split it.”
    The table went quiet. I glanced about for a prompt.
    “Well go on then, man,” Scott said brightly, dropping out of character for a second. “Off you pop. You’re the salesman. See if you can shift it. Try our dessert waiter. He could do with a bit of reliable timekeeping.”
    So up I got. Was it his charm? His smile? The fact I’d got outside the better part of a bottle of wine and the envelope was now on my side of the table? I don’t know.
    But up I got.
    I was halfway around the room, wandering woozily among the tables when our waiter naturally approached. Did I need something ? I figured, in for a penny, and I offered him the watch. Well, you’ve got to have a go, haven’t you? But bang, just like that, he asked me how much.
    So I said make me an offer and he looked at it, umming and ahhing. And he said three-fifty.
    Three-fifty ? I said back, just out of surprise, to which he said ‘all right, four .’
    So eager to bring a halt to this bizarre charade and get back to my table where I could work quietly on my headache, I agreed. He said he hadn’t got the cash on him, he’d have to get an advance from the head waiter, but he’d bring it over to the table with the bill.
    Job done, I returned to the table, thinking hell, maybe this has proved … whatever the hell it was meant to prove.
    “Aah ja’ get on then mate?” Scott asked with a theatrical burp.
    “Done. I’m guessing this is what, some sort of –”
    “Got me’ share ’ave ya? I need that ’undred.”
    “Not yet. A few minutes. The guy’s bringing it over with the bill.”
    “I ain’t got toime to ’ang about ’ere wiv you. Where’s me ’undred. C’mon, I ain’t gettin’ shafted. ’Arf the money’s mine by rights an’ you know it. C’mon, ’undred nicker. C’mon.”
    Our waiter appeared at the table shifting nervously within his waistcoat, eyes darting.
    “ Boss has cleared it ,” he hissed. “ I’ll be back with it in five minutes ,” and he scuttled away to the kitchen.
    “’Undred. Now,” Scott said. “Or I’m takin’ this for m’self,” and he picked up the watch from the table.
    “Okay okay,” I said, sliding my wallet out and flipping woozily through most of the shop’s remaining petty cash. “Here,” I said, counting out five twenties.
    “Cheers guv, gawd bless ya,” Scott said, slipping the twenties away in his top pocket and pulling off his hat. He sat up with a small smile.
    “Now what?” I said.
    “How do you mean?”
    “Now what happens?”
    “That’s it.”
    “That’s it ?” I frowned. I craned around and saw the waiter in conversation with an older major domo looking chap in stripey trousers. He was handing him a white envelope. “You give me a watch and I sell it? I don’t understand. Is this meant to represent something? The shop? My selling skills?”
    Scott just smiled.
    The waiter appeared at our table as expected, but then as very much not expected, unbuttoned his waistcoat, yanked off his tie and tossed it to the table, pulling up a spare chair and glugging out the last inch of wine into a new glass. I looked him over. He was tanned in a gap-year sort of way, about my age, but weathered by sunshine and outdoorsyness. His blondhair was patchy and bleached and he had a healthy Colgate smile.
    “Neil?” Scott said. “I’d like you to meet Henry David.”
    “Pleasure mate,” Henry said in a brand spanking new Australian accent. “You wanna top up?”
    I looked at him. I looked at Scott.
    “Goes back to the forties,” Scott