The mark (Ergo meets Barnaby)

[faxpunk]

 

The mark is about a decade his senior, brown haired, looking at his wrist watch, distracted. Ergo is in Londinium for the first time, he doesn't have a lot of time or a lot of money. The mark's overcoat looks expensive, he's likely wealthy. The wallet is in the inside pocket, most likely, if not in the back pocket. Neither will be easy to access, but with a little skill, anything is possible.

"Terve mies, oletko odottanut kauan?" [Hello sir, have you waited long?] He approaches, smiling widely at the gentleman. He opts for Haemtongue. It's obscure. Even if the man recognises it, he will pick the wrong nationality to tell the constabulary when describing the pickpocket.

"Pardon?" the man asks, his brow knitting together. "Do we know each other?"

"Totta kai, kuomaseni," [Of course, my chum.] Ergo says, winking. His hand moves to clap the man on the bicep. The contact. His eyes scan the man's face, detecting the red that shines through on his cheeks. Oh, this kind of mark. Too easy.

On the face of it, pickpocketing really is the lowest form of the art. It's a finger painting compared to the oil on canvas Ergo wants to do. But his dad insisted he come here for a bigger job and he's in charge of his own travel budget.

But there is something to be said for it, too. Pickpocketing can be very intimate.

"I don't understand, I'm afraid," the man says. "Do you speak any English?"

"Certainly," Ergo replies, allowing his gaze to travel all over the man's face, watching him grow increasingly uncomfortable. "I'm terribly sorry, must have mistaken you for a friend of mine. I'm expecting him here, he's supposed to host me in this beautiful city."

He looks around, slips hands in his pockets. Londinium is a shithole but who's going to tell the English that fact.

His eyes return to the man, and he shrugs, grinning. "Looks like I've been, what's the expression, stood high?"

"Stood up," the man replies warmly and his expression softens. "Where does he live, do you know? I could give you directions."

What the law-abiding portion of mankind doesn't know is that asking for help is the easiest way for the grifters of the world to gain their trust. Ergo looks down at his shoes.

"I couldn't ask for that, sir, when the fact is I don't know at all. We have only messaged each other via fax, I don't know him much at all."

When he looks back up, the man has practically melted in front of him. Ergo steps closer, a hand curving over the mark's forearm. Intimate, but this has already progressed a level or two above pickpocketing. It's now a classic honey trap, a scam as old as time.

"That is quite understandable. Such things happen over fax, sadly. Of course I would like to help you," the man tells him. "But I don't know you at all, sir–"

"Call me Emil," Ergo says with a smile. "You're too kind, sir."

"I will write you a check but need to see some identification, Emil," the mark rambles on, avoiding Ergo's eyes.

Fuck, he thinks. A rule follower of the worst order. Just his luck. But he's still got the man trapped.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Ergo says demurely. "If only I could make you understand, sir," he continues.

His hand slips past the forearm, fastened to the man's midriff and past the expensive overcoat's buttons, running just along the cotton shirt beneath, the soft navel of the mark. The mark flushes pink with the touch, takes a step back, stumbles, really.

"I'm quite– I'm not after that, I can assure you." He breathes deep, gathering himself. "I would never take advantage of a younger man such as yourself and I feel very saddened if some have."

"Not everyone shares your moral backbone, sir," Ergo says, and holds the hand that touched the man, as if it's been burned. "I'm sorry to have offended you."

"It's quite alright," the mark says, and locks eyes with Ergo. "Emil, I will help you, of course. Without asking for any – er, such – favours. What country are you from?"

"Haem, sir."

No spark of recognition occurs, which is par for the course. Nobody told the English there aren't countries yet not invaded by them.

"What a beautiful language you spoke earlier," the mark says, smiling. "Maybe in return for teaching me a phrase or two, I will give you two hundred pounds. Would that be sufficient?"

Ergo considers pushing the amount to three hundred, but he knows if the man walks away with an empty wallet he might feel cheated. Part with two thirds and he will consider it a charity.

"What would you like to know, sir?" He runs a hand through his hair.

The man's eyes follow the gesture. The sucker. "How about ‘good evening’?"

"Hyvää iltaa," Ergo replies, then has to hear the Englishman painfully butcher the pronunciation.

"Very lovely," the mark says, smiling. "Please, call me Barnaby. How about 'pleasure to meet you'?"

He can't resist. "Ime mun kalua," he says gently. The expression means 'suck my dick', but Barnaby would not know that. Ergo hasn't had any fun in days, and even this is work, albeit easy work.

Barnaby mispronounces this expression, too, but repeats it to himself more than once, which nearly causes Ergo to laugh. He keeps the smile, doesn't break. Barnaby hands him two hundred pounds in crisp notes, more than happy to part with the money.

His dad, the drunkard fuck, always said the only thing better than a sucker was a happy sucker. Ergo looks at this Barnaby fellow, smiling as Ergo turns away, salutes him and leaves, walks up the nearby rail station and boards the train.

He doesn't feel pity, or regret, or even relief. He feels pride, looking at those two hundred pounds.

If they both walked away happier than they started, what harm was done, at the end of the day?