THAT'S THE TICKET
Setting: Late 2001.
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I'm Reg Grundy, so I own everything. Well... not really. Was anyone fooled?
Connor stands outside Barnsford's stadium, a pair of sunglasses on his face. It's the big cup match and as usual it's completely sold-out... except conveniantly for the book of rapidly diminishing tickets in his jacket pocket, courtesy of Jack Scully.
A man in a denim coat approaches him after looking around himself. "I hear you've got some tickets for the game?" he murmers with a thick scouse accent.
"I might have," Connor tells him vaguely. "Then again..." He carefully takes in the man's appearance and demeanor. He's heard undercover cops are sniffing round the place, cracking down on ticket-touts. The last thing he needs is another arrest. They'd throw him in the nick this time for sure.
"C'mon man, the game starts in five minutes. Can you help me out or what?"
Connor considers it. He looks harmless enough, just another slob who probably wasn't up early enough on sale day. Connor pities the poor sod. Folks like him never come to anything. It's the early bird that catches the worm, and Connor's bagged a fair few worms, like any good entrepreneur would. "What y' lookin' f'r?"
"Exhibition Stand?" the man says hopefully.
Connor arches an eyebrow. Maybe not such a slob after all. "Gonna cost y'."
"I have the money, pal. Now do I have to go elsewhere, or are you going to stop pissing me about?"
Connor smirks. He knows an empty threat when he hears one. "Like t' see y' try."
The man sighs, his aggro just a front, as Connor knew it was. "C'mon man, please?" he begs.
God, could this guy get any more pathetic? "How many?" Connor asks, still smirking.
"Two."
Connor gives him the damage. "Hundred an' fifty an' they're yours."
Grumbling to himself, the man pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and starts counting out some grubby looking notes. "Better be good seats," he tells the tout.
Connor pulls a face. "No, actually they're in the rafters behind a stone pillar. What d' y' think?"
"Sarcastic sod."
The name is like water off a duck's back to Connor. He's been called worse. Besides which he is a sarcastic sod. "Yeah I am that. Thanks f'r noticin'." The man scowls and slaps the money into Connor's hand. Connor puts the money is his inside jacket pocket and pulls out the book, flipping over for Exhibition tickets and ripping out two. "Nice doin' business with y'," he says as he palms them over.
The man nods and hurries into the ground. If he's quick, he and his mate might just get in before the whistle.
Connor looks down both sides of the street. It's getting quiet now, only a few stragglers making their way in. As he hears the whistle go off behind him, he knows his work here is done. Slipping off down the lane, he smiles to himself at the trade he's done today. Jack will want his cut of course, but there'll be a fair few quid left over for him. Maybe he can get that fancy new suede jacket he's been after?