The Big Score
I hadn’t asked. Just like Marley was dead at the start of “A Christmas Carol”, you need to understand from the get go that I did not at any point ask the question. I didn’t infer that I wanted to know. I dropped no hints whatsoever. Despite that, and without any other introduction, this guy rolls up on me and hits me with what has to be the worst and best opening gambit I have ever had the severe misfortune to hear.
‘The big score is just one of they myths. Like Atlantis or a unicorn. Or a traffic warden with a soul.’
Now to be fair to the guy, I was the only option he really had. The place was empty apart from the two of us and the barman was doing a pretty stellar job of pretending to be engrossed in the horse racing. It had absolutely trumped my pretending to do a crossword so the guy gets his drink, scopes me and waddles his way over. All I can smell is desperation and booze. At least it isn’t from me for once.
‘How?’
Nice one. I lead him on. Now it’s no one’s fault but my own. What a shrewder man would have done is given him a blank stare and gone back to the crossword. Maybe muttered a feeble excuse about being a bit busy. Man, I could have even tried to mad-dog him and scare him off but that has never been my strong suit. So here I am not only engaging with the crazies but actually moving the conversation forward. Too nice. That’s what my mum always said. Too forgiving. I doubt it somehow, even in the face of all the evidence.
‘You know, all these gangster types reckoning they’re gonna hit one big score and that’ll be them out of the game for good. Set them up for life. It’s a lie.’
Do I agree or disagree? One look at his vacant smile and I know it makes no odds either way. I’ve backed myself into a corner here. I’ve made my bed and now it looks like I’ll be lying in it. Although I would be lying if I said I wasn’t vaguely intrigued to hear what sort of nonsense he presents next.
‘How is it a lie?’
His face is an alarming shade of red with the sort of ruined veins that take a lifetime of hard drinking to properly achieve. There is no warmth in his piggy eyes, just enough semblance of life to convince me that there might be someone behind the wheel, even if they too are badly intoxicated. I see it all so clearly now, the way the barman saw him rocking up and changed the channel quickly. He knew it was coming and he didn’t even warn me. Well, if that skinny Judas reckons I’m chatting about football with him when I’m up getting my next pint then he’s got another thing coming.
‘I’m glad you asked.’ He belched, but with the decency to almost turn his head so that only about eighty percent of it clocked me right in the face. ‘Let me ask you something first. What’s your perfect score?’
‘3-2.’ I barely have to think about it. ‘Last gasp winner: – a messy game with loads of chances.’
My smile of smug self-satisfaction is premature. Once more, my razor quick and lightning sharp wit has gone woefully unappreciated. He’s looking at me as if I’m the idiot. Now that is rich. Fair enough, I’m down the boozer myself on a weekday afternoon getting drunk, but I was clearly doing a crossword so it’s not like I’m a total degenerate, right? I decide to throw it back at him, maybe get the upper hand: –
‘What’s your perfect score then?’
The way he looks at me is how you look at your dog when it peeks out the window, thinks its outside and pees all over the lino. You know, the “at least you tried” smile? That’s what he’s levelling at me just now. The audacity of it all.
‘No such thing as a perfect score. It depends on a whole load of things.’
I reckon at this point my chances of getting out of the conversation are basically slim to none. In fact, they’re probably worse than that but I’m a glass-half-full sort of guy so I try and think the best. Even this nutcase with his crackpot theories deserves a chance to be listened to and it might be easier for me to take the hit than to inflict him on the rest of the populous. The bar was still empty apart from me, but the point still stands. I decided to humour him.
‘What does it depend on then?’
Now he laughs. My jokes are getting nothing but my genuine interest is bringing the house down – how is that fair? The way he’s looking at me is as though I’ve done the dog thing a second time and he’s trying hard to not be too judgemental. The urge to ram my glass straight into his smirking mess of a face is not irresistible quite yet but it’s starting to look more attractive.
‘Depends on your overheads, for one thing.’
‘What do you mean by overheads?’
‘Costs. Prices. Expenditure. Obligations.’ He’s got the smarmy smile spreading. ‘How much it costs you to live month to month.’
Even though he’s giving me the kids version I’m confident in my ability to leave him be for at least another wee while. Give him enough rope and he might offend me enough to take umbrage and clean his clock for him. From now on, I’m searching every single thing he says for any hint of an insult and he’s gonna be wearing what’s left of my lager as soon as he messes up.
‘Right. And what does that have to do with it?’
I copy his grin. He sees it as friendly instead of mocking.
‘That’s your starting point, see?’ His glass is empty already and he lifts it up towards the barman. Despite the fact that he was engrossed in the TV, he manages to notice immediately and start pouring another. With a podgy finger, my new friend points at me and the barman grabs a second glass. Looks like I’m in this for at least another drink now. ‘Your starting point is how much cash you need to just exist in your ordinary life. That’s your baseline.’
Mentally, I’m going through all the bills that come out. I’ll be damned if I can remember the last time I actually had to do something to sort them: – my pay comes in electronically and the direct debits hoover an annoying amount of it out a day later. About three quarters of my money never actually physically exists. That’s disturbing. It’s numbers from one screen to another then sliding out onto somewhere else. Beats the hell out of writing cheques and having to remember to pay for things but it’s still a bit of a strange set up. I know the rough figure. It isn’t a huge amount less than what I have coming in.
‘Right. I’ve got my overheads added.’ I’m still smiling at him. ‘Do I tell you?’
‘No, no, no, no.’ He sounds appalled at the prospect. ‘No, you misunderstand. Don’t tell me, just keep it in your head.’
He’s tailed off. It’s obvious he wants me to press the issue. He’s like a cut-rate, plus-sized magician. Pick a card, any card. Don’t show me, just remember it.
‘Right.’ I say again. ‘I’ve got it in my head. Now what?’
‘Now you work out if that’s gonna change any.’
The barman shows up with a pair of pints and a smirk on his face that makes me think I amn’t the first victim he’s thrown to this particular wolf. The list of people in this pub that I wouldn’t mind glassing has just risen by one.
‘How am I meant to know if it’ll change?’ I toast him with my pint as thanks. ‘Like, how am I meant to know if I’m gonna get a bigger house? Or a wife? Or a kid?’
‘You don’t.’ Mystic Meg over here is looking right pleased with himself. ‘But you’ve gotta imagine as if it might. Like what if something unexpected comes up? And what if you want to live a little better all of a sudden?’
Mentally, I add an extra couple of hundred a month onto my figure. I don’t have a clue if that’s anywhere near what’s required or if it would cover any change in circumstance but it seems like the sensible thing to do.
‘Right, fine. I’ve adjusted for the unknown. Now what?’
‘Now you think about how long you’re going to live.’
There is no hint of irony nestled anywhere amongst his facial folds. He’s looking me straight in the eye and I’m just dying for him so start smiling again. If he’s taking the mick then I can go right through him. Sadly, he looks sincere.
‘So how am I meant to know how long I’m going to live then?’ I take another sip of my pint and remember that he bought it for me. Maybe I should back off him a little. ‘You know what I mean though. How on earth is anyone meant to know how long they’re going to live? That’s the whole point isn’t it? You can drink and smoke and do every drug under the sun and live until you’re a hundred. You can be fit and healthy, you know, one of these sickening folk that do exercise for fun and then “boom”…’, I drop my hand to the table with a little more force than I meant to, ‘… snuffed out by a bus. Hit by falling masonry. Drop dead out of the blue.’
He didn’t react to my actions or words in any way at all that I could see. The folds of his face crumpled slightly to the right in what could have been a sign of agreement.
‘Too true. Too true. No man knows the day or the hour.’
That sounded biblical, but I couldn’t quite place where from. It was barely afternoon and the from the glum darkness of the pub, we seemed cut off from the sunshine that lit up the street outside. Leith in the sunshine was not only the subject of a controversial song but a rarity and almost a window to the glory days of the past. This pub had stood out against the onslaught of revival and renewal and remained as it always had, a dingy corner where the sawdust on the floor was so recently removed that you could still almost smell it. This was why I liked it.
‘So, I’ve now magically deciphered when I’m going to die..’ I said, ‘… and how much money I need for every month. Now I pick what my big score is going to be, right?’
‘Not yet, not yet.’ He was like a gelatinous parrot. ‘You multiply these together and get the sum of how much money you’ll need until you die.’
‘OK, fine.’ There was no chance in hell that I was going to actually do the sums. ‘I’ve done that.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ He said. ‘But it doesn’t really matter anyway.’
The drink was doing its work inside me but it was still at the mellow stage for now. I found myself laughing at his disbelief instead of angered by it. His smiles were jokes that included us both now. His morbid obesity was only jolliness that covered his generous bones.
‘Right, it doesn’t matter. Because you’re telling me how there’s no such thing as this big score, so it won’t make a difference, eh?’
‘Right.’ He nodded his head. ‘Right. So this number that you haven’t worked out. It’s going to be pretty substantial.’
It was. There was something else at the table slavering nonsense at me that was fairly substantial but that seemed a little unkind to point out.
‘Yeah, man. Pretty substantial.’
My glass was empty. I stood and brought it back to where the barman was still pretending to watch the horses. There was no point in interrupting his fakery or calling him on it, so I just signalled “two” with my fingers, but not in the normal way, and made for the door, brandishing a cigarette packet to my chatting companion to let him know I wouldn’t be too long.
Through the door, the divide between the dark inside and the bright reality came crashing down and the sounds of the street came roaring back to life. The buses and cars crept along, honking angrily at one another for no reason and people walked with their heads in phones or staring at the pavement. No one was looking my way, at least not that I could notice, so I leant against the wall in the shade of the doorway and lit up, perfectly happy that the imaginary wall between us remained. They could carry on with their lives and responsibilities: – I had a crossword to finish. The gradual creep through my veins was settling into my bones nicely and the smoking was just sharpening it up a little. The door behind me opened.
‘So, now that you have your number, what do you reckon you do with it?’
Great. Now he’s following me around. I’m scared to go for a slash in case he appears at my shoulder and tries to shake it for me. Without my consent, the packet has reappeared in my hand and is offering itself to him. He shakes his head, thankfully. These are getting more expensive by the day.
‘I dunno man.’ I say. ‘Pick how I’m gonna get my money?’
‘Close. Close.’
He’s not offering any more than that. Seems a bit of a waste to tail me outside like a lost puppy to say that. Just five minutes alone, why was that too much to ask? Talking in there is fine, that’s the pub, out here is normality and we are not associates here. He doesn’t seem to get it so I pretend to be deep in thought as I power-toke my smoke and lead the way back inside. Our pints are waiting so I slip the money onto the table and ask the barman which horse won the last race. He looks up quickly, but it’s on an ad break. Absolute cretin. Hiss hiss, ya reptile.
Back to the table and one futile attempt to pick up the pen and get back to the crossword later, my new friend has finally made his way back over to me and eased himself into the seat with the grace of a collapsing big-top. The exertion has nearly killed him.
His eyes light up at the prospect of fresh lager and he slurps a huge quantity of it down. He toasts me so I feel obliged to do the same. Now that he’s settled, he’s looking at me again with interest. It’s probably my turn to talk but I’ve forgotten where we were. I take the easy option.
‘So where were we then? We had our sum of money all figured out.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Now, it isn’t about choosing where, like you assumed, it’s about choosing what.’
I’d been having an easier time with the cryptic crossword than this guy. One down, twenty stone: – “parrot who forces conversation on strangers”. Hmm, tough one.
‘Choose what?’ I ask.
‘The sort of thing you want to do. The sort, see, not the thing itself.’
He says this as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world and I need to concentrate on slowing my breathing down. I don’t want to hit him. I hate not finding out how things end and I’ll be damned if he hasn’t piqued my interest somehow.
‘How do you mean, the sort of thing?’ I try and keep my question measured. ‘What “sort” of thing are you on about?’ My teeth are gritted.
‘Pick your poison again to a certain extent. Are you good with computers?’
‘What?’
‘Are you good with computers?’
‘I can work them, if that’s what you mean.’ I was still watching him for the slightest sign of insult. ‘Can’t build them or anything like that.’
‘But you can do the internet and that?’
‘Yes.’ I was staring at him. ‘I can do “the internet and that”.’
He didn’t look old enough for it to be such an alien concept to him. I mean, come on, the number of things without an internet outlet nowadays is practically zero. Most people have some sort of smartphone. If you step outside and interact with the real world in any meaningful way then you have to be aware of the internet. You have to be able to utilise it, at least to a small extent.
‘Then you have one of the most popular “sorts” open to you. That “cyber-crime” I hear so much about. That’s one that’s always going be out of reach for me.’
‘Aye, sure thing pal. I’ll just nip online and download some money then, eh?’
‘I don’t know how it works.’ He smiled. ‘If that’s how they do it then I guess so.’
‘That’s not how they do it.’ I found myself smiling back. ‘You can’t download money.’
‘I see. I see. Every day’s a school day.’
To be fair to him, I did know a fair bit about computers. My vast knowledge even extended as far as the dark arts of “the internet and that” but even I wasn’t exactly a hundred percent clear on the exact ins and outs of a lot of these high-profile breaches. The way I saw it, no matter how far through it you went, at some point you had to put whatever you managed to get into an account you had access to and surely someone could find that easily enough?
And, OK, so I looked into it once upon a time and your best bet is a lot of messing around with virtual wallets, cryptocurrencies and TOR but these things are a lot of hassle, so why really bother. Besides, you watch all these films where a guy just hammers on a keyboard, says some technical sounding words that mean nothing and cracks the system with seconds to spare. That must how it goes right? Right?
Wrong. The main way people get access to stuff nowadays is called social engineering. It is the exact opposite of technical actually, it’s just using the information people gladly put up on the internet to crack their security questions.
You can phone up a random office, pretend you’re from IT and I’ll bet you at least one person will just hand their password out to you. If you can get some sort of pretence to take a walk through the cubicles in person, several will have their password on a post-it note on the side of their monitor. I honestly wish I was joking. The stupidity of the average person is constantly astounding. But the fact remains that I’m not confident in my ability to get whatever cash I could get a hold of back out safely, so the internet is out for me too.
‘Yeah, put a pin in the internet for now, bud.’ I said. ‘What other sort of stuff we considering now?’
‘Depends. Depends on what you’re capable of and willing to do. You the sort of guy who’d be willing to hold somewhere up? A bookies, a bank or a boozer?’
‘Nah.’ I totally am. ‘Not my scene.’ It absolutely is my scene.
‘Let’s pretend you are for a minute anyway.’
‘OK.’
‘What sort of place would you choose?’
It’s not the sort of thing that’s ever crossed my mind until now, honest your honour, and you can’t prove otherwise, but I’m going through the places I know the best. This fat slob has got me mentally scoping out any joint I set foot in regularly. Imagining takings, till contents, customer bankrolls. Envisaging weekends versus weekdays and holidays against normal weeks. Looking at who would likely resist and who would roll over to save their own neck. Surprisingly, it wasn’t difficult to picture.
‘What about the bookies?’ I suggested.
‘Ok. Ok. Now why would that be?’ He gave me the impression that I’d got it wrong.
‘Fair bit of cash on the premises. More in the safe. People who aren’t going to let themselves get hurt over someone else’s money.’ I feel like the case I’m making is strong.
‘All good points.’ He took another massive swallow. ‘But how much will they really have? We’re talking mid five-figure really aren’t we? So how many times are you going to have to do it?’
The maths was barely worth doing.
‘Too many times.’
‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. And what are you going to do if anyone resists?’
‘Smoke ‘em.’ I use my best gunslinger drawl. ‘Ice them. Body-bag them.’
‘Hmmm.’ His eyebrow folds had creased in disapproval. ‘So you’re getting tooled up then?’
‘I guess so.’ My faith in the plan is faltering badly. ‘I mean, just to make sure people do as they’re asked.’
‘Having a weapon means automatic jail time.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s true.’ The horse-racing enthusiast had apparently felt it was time to chime in. ‘They throw the book at you for that.’
‘Right fine. I’m not tooled up then.’
Trying to look like I haven’t gone in the huff only made it obvious that I’d done so. A fictional plan for a non-existent heist and I’m getting embarrassed by my shortcomings and oversights. The barman is laughing to himself. I turn to him: –
‘Right then, Danny Ocean, why don’t you tell me your grand scheme then?’
‘Another two pints in the meantime as well, please.’ my friend interjected.
The barman has flesh tunnel piercings in his ears, ink bursting out from under his deep V-neck and the sort of casual superiority that made you want to nut him just for existing. He got the glasses ready and tried to look as though he wasn’t thinking. I could tell he was. His head probably buttoned up the back. The gerbil in the flywheel was going ten to the dozen. What a smarmy git.
‘I reckon I’d do a bank.’ He said finally.
My heavy companion turned his withering gaze onto the barman now and I joined him. He looked down again quickly, taking a beamer.
‘You?’ I asked. ‘You’re gonna rock into the bank and hold them up are you? And who are you meant to be? Not-so-Butch Cassidy? Billy the Kid’s kid brother? The Sundance Film Festival kid?’
‘Well now. Well now.’ My companion is trying to be kind. ‘Maybe it isn’t as ludicrous as it first appears. How would you go about it?’
‘I dunno. Hand a note under the glass or something?’
‘A note under the glass?! Can you imagine this guy doing that?’ I’m laughing out loud. ‘Probably be hand-written in beautiful cursive. It’ll have “please” at the start, “thank you” at the end and a return address in the top right. No chance you’d do that.’
‘Aye I would.’
‘Sure thing bud. Aye, course you would. Totally believe you.’
‘I would.’ He paused between pouring pints to look at me. ‘And I’d be smart enough not to go all Bruce Wayne like you and get “tooled up”.’ He actually made air quotes with his fingers.
‘You mean John Wayne.’
‘Whatever.’
‘And what would you do about your ugly mug all over the CCTV?’ I asked.
‘I’d wear a mask.’
‘Probably a good shout, but I meant for the robbery.’
‘Oh ha ha.’ He was bringing the pints over and sitting down. ‘Very funny. I’d just chuck on a balaclava or something.’
‘And where would you do that?’ the fat man asked.
‘On his head?’ I suggested.
‘You know what I meant.’
‘I dunno, outside?’
‘There’s probably CCTV outside as well.’ He spoke with the patient authority of a man who knew. ‘And every time you go further back, there’ll be cameras and witnesses. At some point, you need to get into your mask and it has to be out of sight of the cameras, but you don’t want to be too far away to walk the streets in it, so what can you really do?’
‘Steal a car?’ The barman was starting to look as dejected as I had. ‘I dunno, is that the right answer?’
‘No, no.’ A podgy hand brought the fresh glass close. ‘There is no right answer, that’s what I’ve been saying.’
The pen that hadn’t been used for the crossword was in my hand and I was prodding the barman around the neckline. He was pretending not to notice but there was no way it wasn’t annoying so I kept at it.
‘What about these abominations though pal, eh? Pretty distinctive aren’t they?’ He swatted the pen away. ‘You gonna wear a big wool jumper as well to make sure you’re not on Crimewatch half a second after the alarm goes off? And the big man has been saying from the start there’s no way to do it properly. That’s the whole thing we’re doing here.’
‘At least I’m trying.’
‘I tried as well and you laughed me out of the joint.’ I prodded him again with the pen and he knocked it out of my hand. ‘Not as easy as you think with the criminal mastermind over there just poking holes the whole time.’
‘Now, now. It’s only meant to be a bit of fun. If you two are going to get annoyed about it then there’s no point and I’ll leave you to it.’
The barman and I formed an unspoken alliance, both certain that we were at a loss for any better entertainment for the afternoon and damned if we were going to let our only source of what passed as interest abandon us in favour of who knew what.
‘Nah, man.’
‘Just messing.’
The barman got his coffee from over by the television and brought it back to the table to sit with us. Wildly unprofessional, yes, but there wasn’t a single other customer around to make an objection. Who else in their right minds would want to be here at this sort of a time of day? No one. That’s who. Just the outcasts and the extras: – anyone who didn’t abide by the usual regulations and customs of preserving sobriety during the daylight hours and wasting time, energy and emotional strength worrying about who was judging you.
‘So what would you do?’ The barman asked the large gentleman beside me. ‘What would be your plan of action?’
‘Hmmm. Hmmm.’ It was only an impression of thinking. This was something he already knew inside out. ‘Confidence, I reckon. Yes. Confidence would be my game.’
‘How do you mean, confidence?’ I asked.
‘Bit of a catch-all really, isn’t it. Sorry about that. What I mean is that I’d conduct some form of confidence scam.’
‘Yeah, but how?’ The barman was keen to avenge the implied massacre of his own idea previously.
‘I’m not sure, maybe some form of embezzlement.’
He didn’t sound as though he was unsure in the slightest. In fact, he sounded as though he was entirely certain that this would be his game and not only that, but he had worked out the details in painstaking detail. It didn’t smack of the amateur efforts the two of us had so far come up with, inspired by too many comic books and probably these ultra-violent computer games that are messing us all up if the media is to be believed. In general, they were not.
‘Hang on,’ said the barman, ‘to embezzle money, surely you have to already be part of the company?’
‘He’s right.’ I prodded the barman in the chest with my thumb since the pen was no longer available. ‘He is actually right. How can you embezzle from the outside? Surely that’s just plain old robbery? Eh? What do you say to that?’
‘A fair point.’ He laughed, making the folds on his face move together. ‘A fair point indeed. You certainly know how to put the squeeze on a guy. That’s where the confidence comes in.’
What would take confidence would be for him to wear speedos to the beach. And that would also be really putting the squeeze on him, in the crotch department anyway. Unlike me and the barman, who had folded like a flimsy house of cards in the face of the slightest objection, he seemed in fact to have inflated even more, if that were possible. There was nothing in his demeanour to show that he was bothered in the slightest by the questioning. Even our dead-cert objection was met with such casual indifference that a lesser man was likely to have taken offence.
‘And how exactly…’ I asked, ‘…does a man, confidently or otherwise, get involved enough in a company to embezzle from the outside, if there is such a thing, and manage to extract himself from the situation unharmed and entirely better off?’ I nudged the barman again to try and get him to contribute.
‘Yeah.’ He added.
Thanks for that mate. Real home run you hit there. Absolute top drawer patter. Show him who’s the boss and keep him humble. Was it not Shakespeare himself who said “Yeah”? Was in not Thomas Hobbes who questioned “Yeah”? Did Plato not, when he found the spare time, occasionally weigh into the heavyweight intellectual issues of the day with a slightly Grecian “Yeah”? Did Karl Marx not declare “Yeah”? Were not the founding fathers of every first world nation that has ever attained world domination marched with a song on their lips and “Yeah” in their heart? Bloody barman. Every time he was coming dangerously close to seeming (dare I say it) likeable, he came out with some behaviour so unbelievably despicable that he sank right back down to the bottom of my estimation and jumped right to the very front of the queue of people I wanted to headbutt.
‘Well, this is all theoretical of course…’ he said in a voice that implied anything but, ‘…but what I would do would be to set myself up as an accountant. I wouldn’t be faking this part, I’d put the work in, get the degree, get qualified and become established. That’s the hard bit there.’ There was a twinkle in his piggy eyes that made me inclined to believe him rather than anything else. ‘Once I was established and trusted, that would be when I’d start to move onto phase two…’
‘Phase two?!’ I nudged the barman so hard that he almost fell out of his seat. ‘Phase two, you hearing this? We’re getting caught up and tangled in the planning stage and he’s got phases. Phases! Unreal. Some boy, some boy.’
The drink was really going to work inside my head. I knew that the barman hated me touching him so I kept doing it every available point. The fat man seemed happy to be the subject of my laughter so there was no risk in my mind of offending him enough to stop the story dead in his tracks. Even if either of them was to take offence, I reasoned, I could take them all so what difference does it make?
‘Phase two. Yes. The second phase. This is where the scamming side of it starts to come into play. This is where the hard years on the straight and narrow start to pay their dividends. Let’s say you grow up in trouble with the law, a few arrests here and there and a bit of a reputation. If that’s the case, then you don’t have a snowballs chance in hell of pulling off this sort of stunt. It just won’t happen. It’s a non-starter.’
‘Noted.’ Said the barman, who had probably never even got a speeding ticket in his life.
‘I get it.’ I said. I’d never been arrested, but I tried to act as though I had.
‘So where was I?’ he asked.
‘Phase two.’ The barman and I were in unison, a low-budget Laurel and Hardy.
‘Yes. Yes. Phase two.’
He polished off the last of his lager and looked at the glass. It was probably my round. I couldn’t be sure but the chances were that it was. I gave the barman a shove towards the counter and he looked at me as though he were about to throw the first punch of his life. I apologised and he began pouring while I drained my glass. The time I waste pandering to these little sensitive souls. Sometimes I reckon I’m too nice. But here he comes again, a glass for each of us and a seat beside me, almost out of reach this time. Clever boy.
‘Right then, mate.’ The barman must have peeked in his pants and found a pair. ‘You’re an established accountant and you’re into phase two.’
‘Established and trusted.’ He corrected. ‘The trust is the most important part. You need a string of good references. A long record of doing a good job for serious people. Always within the letter of the law, consistently ignoring its intentions. Squeezing through the loopholes.’
If I look anywhere other than my shoes I am going to explode with laughter. He cannot be talking about squeezing through things. He cannot. It’s too funny. There’s no way, that just isn’t fair. I can sense someone beside me stifling a giggle. Now this might offend him if I were to go in too hard on this. Neither of us can laugh in his face. That’s just bad form. As it happens, he’s either not noticing or he’s had the good grace and manners to pretend that he doesn’t.
‘Yes, that’s what these corporations pay through the nose for. A bean counter who is shrewd enough to think a little about the beans he’s counting. Who knows where the cracks are that profits can slip through. Can make your balance sheet show that despite being one of the largest and most successful companies in the world, on paper you’ve posted a minor loss every quarter for the past eight quarters. It’s a very fine line to tread and one that you can be rewarded handsomely for doing well.’
‘Yeah, yeah, accountants are all wizards.’ I’m waving my hands in front of the three of us. ‘You say the magic words and all the profits disappear and the tax bill is less than most individuals. We all know how these slick things operate.’
‘Well. Well.’ He leaned forward and the table creaked horribly under the load. ‘What you do is one year, you do two sets of taxes for them. This is after as long as you can stomach of doing it the proper way, the longer the better, so that they have full faith in you. Then you prepare two sets. The first set is the normal “we made a tiny profit or a minimal loss” version where the main offset is a rather substantial seven figure sum that is being transferred to an account that you own. This is the one you present to them first.’
‘And what do they say?’ asked the barman.
‘They go ballistic. They turn a hearty shape of crimson and rage openly at you. You let them rant and threaten. All the better if you can goad them into hitting you. Once they have reached their peak of superiority and all the “how dare you” and “do you know who I am” variants have run out…’ He paused. We were both holding our breath. ‘…that’s when you give them the second version of the taxes.’
He’s loving the attention. The story is being strung out piece by painstaking piece and he has us hanging on every word. I have never cared so much about someone else’s taxes in my whole life.
‘And what’s the second set like then?’ I asked. ‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘The second set is the truth.’ He licked his lips. ‘The sweet, unbridled truth. Shoved, naked and horrible into the light of day for any and all to see. Healthy profits with an obscene amount of tax due to the government. A frightening amount. But a fair amount. You slide that simple sheet of paper over to them and you watch as the colour in their face changes.’
‘Surely they still go mental?’ said the barman.
‘Oh, like you wouldn’t believe. They go a darker hue of red and then a deathly white. All the pennies drop at once. They’ll rage more, they’ll threaten, they might throw things around but you’ve played the ace of trumps and both of you know it. You let them run themselves out and then ask them as politely as you can if the first set of returns will be acceptable. It will be. You’ve now burnt all your bridges at once: – years of being good and toeing the line gone up in smoke and all you’ll have to show for it is a healthy bank balance and a bunch of suits vowing their revenge.’
He seemed to have come to the end of his speech. I was watching him carefully, seeing the keenness on his face and the smiles that exposed yellowing teeth.
‘You seem to be pretty thorough for a theoretical situation, bud.’ I said. ‘I hope you won’t mind my asking if you’ve actually done this.’
‘No. No.’ He smiled again and I wished he wouldn’t. ‘My whole point was that these things are impossible, was it not? There’s no company that big that would take a burn like that lying down. They’d ruin him.’
The barman stood up and made his way back behind the bar, deep in thought. He was clearly running over the scenario in his head the same way I was.
‘But that’s the point, isn’t it?’ I asked eventually. ‘You only get one chance so you only do it once. I reckon you’ve done it.’ I grasped the base of his glass to stop him drinking the last of it. ‘You’ve done it, haven’t you? That was the only reason you started this chat, just to tell me that you’d done it.’
‘Boasting? Boasting? Not me, mate. Not my scene.’ The fat around his eyes was crinkling and half a smile divided his cheek fat. ‘I was just making idle conversation. Two men drinking alone on a weekday afternoon, might as well have a chat eh?’
‘I don’t believe you.’ I released the glass and watched him as he smirked and drained it. ‘You wanting another?’
He shook the great folds of his face to indicate that he was fine and with a superhuman effort, levered himself off the seat.
‘No, that’s plenty for me thanks. Lovely to meet you though, I enjoyed our chat.’
I shook the meaty paw that he offered and watched as he waddled off, treating the barman to the same handshake before he exited into the afternoon sun leaving the two of us alone in the empty pub. I brought my paper up to the bar and passed the next few hours drinking, thinking, making half an effort at the crossword and annoying the barman with made up clues.
‘Over encumbered postman? Any thoughts mate? Over encumbered postman?’
‘How many letters?’ he asked.
A second later he realised the joke and made an attempt at going in the huff with me. We reconciled eventually and by the time I staggered out into the gathering dusk we were the most passable of acquaintances.
Since that day, the barman and I have seen one another far more often than he would like and more than I would care to admit. In the passing conversation that I inflict on him, he has managed to tell me that he hasn’t come across our scamming accountant friend in person but a lot of the old boys knew about him. Apparently, he hadn’t worked for years. Apparently, he used to be a successful accountant with his own company. Apparently, it folded for no apparent reason. Apparently, he was ruined and never worked again. Apparently, despite this, he never seemed to struggle for money.
The barman hasn’t come up with a better big score yet, despite the fact I’ve asked him every time I’ve seen him. The fact that I’ve taken to asking him this at the top of my lungs across the crowded bar when it’s as busy as possible may factor into this, but I like to think he’s come up with a belter and just doesn’t want to cut me in. He still hasn’t barred me, so I reckon he’ll come round eventually and ask for my help.
Since that fateful afternoon, I like to pretend I haven’t thought about the scamming accountant and his sweaty, uninvited, terrible patter. I like to let on to myself that I didn’t believe a word of it and that he was just talking nonsense to entertain a stranger. But every time I got to the bank, I now find myself scoping the cameras and guessing at the takings. In supermarkets, I look for the entry and exit points. Every time I lose a bet, I think about how much the cashier would have in the safe and how it would go.
But I’ve not made a move on anything yet. That’s what I’m telling you anyway. There’s no such thing as a perfect score. It’s a lie and a vicious rumour: – a fantasy of the plastic gangster and the get-rich-quick mob. There is no such thing, so don’t waste your time looking. Honest.
