Page 1 of Catching a Con Man

Tyler

Ionce got some advice from an old friend, that to really get into the big events, you had to act like you owned the place. That advice may have been relevant in the eighties, but it really wasn’t so great any more. In a world of overzealous doormen, photo ID and social media checks, it was basically impossible to get through the door with a fake ID and a threat to call daddy if the bouncer didn’t believe you. I had to get into the venue before I could start throwing my weight around.

“I’m outside now, and it’s fucking freezing,” I muttered down the line to Amanda, my flatmate and ticket into the event. I itched at the square of fabric tucked into my trousers that was making just standing uncomfortable.

“Well, don’t blame me for your poor life choices,” she said. “I’ll get to you when I can.”

The world’s glitterati had descended on Cardiff for the largest charity business gala in Britain, and here I was freezing my tits off next to a tiny metal door at the back of Cardiff City Hall.

The door opened with a squeal, and Amanda beckoned me into the hot kitchen. “Sorry, had to make sure there was no-one here to tell on you,” she said. There were other chefs in the room but they were all slaving over hot stoves, and to most unsuspecting people I’d just look like a waiter who was running late and sneaking in through the back entrance to avoid getting fired.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it,” I slipped a twenty-pound note into her hand.

“Well, you could appreciate it double and pay your rent on time this month,” she muttered, slamming the door behind her. “Now go. Do your thing. And don’t tell me anything about it. I don’t want to be criminally liable…again.”

I resisted telling her that by letting me into the building she was already criminally liable. She might have kicked me out if she knew the scale of the plans I had for the evening. So I gave her a tight smile and rushed out of the kitchen and into the staff corridor.

I passed a woman in the corridor and smiled. It was dark back here, and I was wearing a white shirt and black trousers, just like every other waiter and waitress would be, so she wouldn’t know I wasn’t meant to be there. The more waiters and waitresses I passed, I knew I was getting closer to where I needed to be. So when I spotted a staff bathroom, I ducked into it and locked the door.

I pulled the folded-up jacket that I had stuffed into the back of my trousers and ran it under the hand dryer to remove creases, and pulled the bowtie out of the pocket and slipped it around my neck. I had a little tin of gel in my breast pocket with which I slicked my hair back. I smiled at myself in the mirror. With both jacket and bowtie in place, and just a little gel, I’d transformed from waiter to guest without ever having to show my ID to a doorman or security guard.

Those at the gala were the kind to lord it over those with less, even though the only actual difference between them and the people serving them champagne was an expensive tux and some extra personal grooming. And much as I didn’t like to, I would have to inhabit that personality now. I’d have to be like one of them if I wanted them to believe me.

I dusted off the jacket as I stepped out of the bathroom and then jutted my chin upward.These people are beneath me, I am a very rich man indeed.

I wandered the hallway until a waitress spotted me. She must have been about twenty. “Sir, you can’t be back here, I-”

“I’m well aware that I shouldn’t be,” I interrupted. “However, it seems that one of your ineffectual colleagues has directed me to completely the wrong place! I was merely looking for the gents…”

“So sorry, so sorry!” she squeaked. “Let me lead you back to the dining hall, sir.”

“Thank-yes, of course. Get to it.”

I followed behind her, close enough that it would seem overbearing. I hated being so awful to people who weren’t so far enough away from me in life. But I knew that now was the time to pull the whole ‘own-the-place’ act to get what I needed from people.

She led me through a set of swinging doors and into the dining hall. They had set it up with about twenty tables around the dance-floor. An orchestra had set up in the corner and was playing, and I had timed my entrance perfectly. No one had sat down yet, so I meandered between the tables until I saw the name I was looking for on a card. Addison Crane. An old American billionaire who had made his home in Wales decades earlier and run his business with an iron fist from the Welsh capital ever since. The patriarch of one of the richest families in the country, and — rumour had it — one of the richest families in the world, once their hidden assets were considered.

“Excuse me.” I touched the shoulder of a nearby waiter. “They promised me a seat next to Mr Crane, as we have some urgent business to discuss. I don’t know why, but it seems I’ve been omitted from the guest list.”

“Oh, sir, I can only apologise. Let me just check…what was the name?”

“Tyler Quinn. Yes, Q, U, I, double-N. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Sorry, sir. Let me sort that for you right away.” The waiter hurried away and a minute later, returned accompanied by the maitre’d, an older gentleman in coattails.

“Sir, I apologise but it seems you have been omitted from the guest list,” said the maitre’d.

Shit.I hadn’t relied on them checking once I was already in. I schooled my face into the haughtiest expression I could. “Well, my grandfather promised me that everything was in hand. Holden Quinn, I’m sure you’ve heard of him? And there was no issue at the door, my name and ticket were certainly enough to get me in there.”

The maitre’d shot a look to the poor young waiter that might have had him burst into flames. “I amsosorry sir, let me sort this out for you. Of course you should be on the list.”

I smiled. I’d picked Quinn because Holden Quinn was one of the most elusive billionaires on the planet, renowned for his privacy. No one knew if he was married, or had children, and, I hoped rather riskily, that privacy would mean that no one could ask him about his grandson’s sudden entry into society.

The maitre’d rushed away and came back just as quickly, then swapped out a card on the table for a fresh one with my name printed on it. “Once again, sir, I can only apologise. I’ll ensure that nothing like this ever happens again.”

“Good.” I turned away and waved a hand to dismiss him.

I pulled back my chair but realised that no one else had sat down yet. Was there some kind of hidden signal I was waiting for? I headed over to hang back at the corner of the room and observe as much as I could.

---