Conman (2011)
“The time?” I shouted over the static. I craned around and took an anxious look at Elvis on the wall. “Just after eight.”
“You go hoh sooh?”
“Home? No no, eight in the morning. It’s the morning here. Thursday.”
“Ahh, mornih,” Cheng said. “I in Los Ahngeh. Is midnih he. My buy verh pleeh wih hih post. Verh pleeh, Neih sir. Verh pleeh,” he went on. Something like that, anyway. To be honest, I didn’t care whether he was pleeh. Verh or otherwise. I yessed and really-ed and that’s wonderfulled for a few anxious minutes before getting rid of him, hanging up and breathing out.
The shop was cold and still, Elvis backcombing his quiff minute by aching minute. Despite the stalactites of Magic Trees twisting and fluttering in the office, the place smelled somehow more rotten and damp than ever. A clammy, wet odour of must and fur crawling stale and dank like cobwebs, among which the portable heater whirred and clanked.
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