writing_shadows

I wasn't in the best of moods to begin with; the building I was in was moving, and I don't know why that freaks me out so much (especially considering the whole "there is ultimately no paranormal, just normal we don't understand yet" argument) but it does. I was freaked out. I thought about taking up smoking. I thought about scooting down the stairs (all however-many-hundreds of them there were) on my rear and going back to my hotel. I thought about lying down and closing my eyes until the building stopped moving and I could leave.

That's probably why I didn't notice him at first. He hovered silently like a shark until I'd fidgeted enough with the canape and finally shoved it in my mouth. Then he pounced.

"You're Batman's...Assistant, aren't you?" he purred in my ear, making me jump. I hate when people say Assistant like that, like there's something inherently sexual about our relationship. It makes me want to hit them in the face. Just a little.

I turned to face him, taking a step back as I did. He was too everything; too close, too tan (why do people do that? I'll never understand), too smarmy. I should have smelled him a mile off - not just because he had too much cologne on, but because he was a con artist.

"Who are you?" I asked, crossing my arms. I could feel myself going hostile, hear the blood starting to pound in my ears. Go away I was saying in my mind.

Maybe one day I'll be psychic and this will work.

He introduced himself, but I forgot his name immediately. If I could have forgotten him completely, I would have happily done so. But no, he kept talking.

"Looking for a new Wayne Enterprises headquarters?"

Who was this guy? Was I required to be nice to him? I looked around desperately for Mike, but he was gesturing emphatically out the window (which I had yet to risk getting close to), deep in conversation. I turned back to Mr Aren't-I-Clever-Making-a-Reference-to-an-Iconic-Character as if turning towards the gallows.

He smiled toothily at me, and I bared my teeth right back. "Been to India before?" he asked doggedly. I grunted. He took this as encouragement to talk about his experiences in Dubai, plodding his monologue inexorably to: "I'll show you around the city after this." It wasn't a question, wasn't a request.

Cons based on expertise were always hard to pull off. You had to be a certain type (he was), and you had to be confident enough to bluff if you were caught out.

This was the sort of con artist Mike's money attracted most often.

I smiled grimly. He gave me a million-dollar - or maybe I should say billion-pound - smile in return.

I leaned in. "Look, buddy. You're made, all right? Get out of here and I won't make your life difficult. Stay, and I'm not going to say anything more about it than things will get really uncomfortable for you."

I turned pointedly back to the canapes (if I could have made myself get closer to the windows, I would have done that).

I didn't see him again.