"Good to hear," the first one said, grinning even more broadly. "Now, as to that
favor. My friends and I, we've got a problem. We've grown bored of our wallets.
They are dull and uninteresting."
"And empty," the third one interjected, with a little, stoned giggle.
"Oh yes, and empty. We thought, well, perhaps you visitors from abroad would
find them suitable souvenirs of England. We thought perhaps you'd like to trade,
like?"
Art smiled in spite of himself. He hadn't been mugged in London, but he'd heard
of this. Ever since a pair of Manchester toughs had been acquitted based on the
claim that their robbery and menacing of a Pakistani couple had been a simple
cross-cultural misunderstanding, crafty British yobs had been taking off
increasingly baroque scores from tourists.
Art felt the familiar buzz that meant he was about to get into an argument, and
before he knew it, he was talking: "Do you really think that'd hold up in court?
I think that even the dimmest judge would be able to tell that the idea of a
Canadian being mistaken about trading two wallets full of cash for three empty
ones was in no way an error in cross-cultural communication. Really now. If
you're going to mug us --"
"Mug you, sir? Dear oh dear, who's mugging you?" the first one said.
"Well, in that case, you won't mind if we say no, right?"
"Well, it would be rather rude," the first said. "After all, we're offering you
a souvenir in the spirit of transatlantic solidarity. Genuine English leather,
mine is. Belonged to my grandfather."
"Let me see it," Art said.
"Beg pardon?"
"I want to see it. If we're going to trade, I should be able to examine the
goods first, right?"
"All right, sir, all right, here you are."
The wallet was tattered and leather, and it was indeed made in England, as the
frayed tag sewn into the billfold attested. Art turned it over in his hands,
then, still smiling, emptied the card slot and started paging through the ID.
"Lester?"
Lester swore under his breath. "Les, actually. Hand those over, please -- they
don't come with the wallet."
"They don't? But surely a real British wallet is hardly complete without real
British identification. Maybe I could keep the NHS card, something to show
around to Americans. They think socialized medicine is a fairy tale, you know."
"I really must insist, sir."
"Fuck it, Les," the second one said, reaching into his pocket. "This is stupid.
Get the money, and let's push off."
"It's not that easy any more, is it?" the third one said. "Fellow's got your
name, Les. 'Sbad."
"Well, yes, of course I do," Art said. "But so what? You three are hardly
nondescript. You think it'd be hard to pick your faces out of a rogues gallery?
Oh, and wait a minute! Isn't this a trade? What happened to the spirit of
transatlantic solidarity?"
"Right," Les said. "Don't matter if you've got my name, 'cos we're all friends,
right, sir?"
"Right!" Art said. He put the tattered wallet in his already bulging jacket
pocket, making a great show of tamping it down so it wouldn't come loose. Once
his hand was free, he extended it. "Art Berry. Late of Toronto. Pleased to
meetcha!"