It's always better to be in the money than in the Red

My pulse raced as we filled his car with the boxes. I tried my hardest to refrain from making eye contact. Did he suspect anything? I couldn't tell. He seemed oblivious to who I was and had been happy with my product. Little did he know. I bit my tongue as the last one went in.

"Now. That's that then . . . Who do I make this out to?" he enquired enthusiastically, fetching the chequebook from his arse pocket.

Uh oh. A cheque. My meticulous planning hadn't been meticulous enough, it seemed. Disaster. The time for bluffing had arrived.

"Eh, sure I suppose cash is the easiest? We work on commission so . . ." I suggested, trying to sound some way convincing.

"Oh, of course," he smiled and began to scribble.

I breathed a subtle sigh of relief and shot a thankful glance at the heavens from behind the thick sunglasses that shielded my identity. He'd bought it, the dozy bollox. We shook hands and I pocketed the rather fat cheque.

"Sure I'll email you on the receipt."

Like feck I would.

He grinned again before waving and sitting into his car. Amazing, he didn't suspect a thing. Why would he though?

As he exited the car park I curled my fingers into a fist and squeezed it in triumph.

"Who's the daddy."

* * * * *

It had started like any other day. I'd peeled myself from my bed, wolfed down a bowl of porridge and headed for work. My morning routine involves purchasing a strong coffee in the garage near my workplace. I need the kick-start. The garage was the site for the first of three coincidental occurrences that would ultimately lead to one of the great lightbulb moments of our time, an epiphany to end all epiphanies.

"Oh my God sir, I did not recognise you with your new beard," exclaimed the Indian cashier I'd become friendly with as I fished for change in my pocket. It was true. My complexion had been altered. I'd decided it was time for a change and binned the Gillettes for now. We laughed and I left, sipping my beverage contentedly.

The morning chugged by slowly as per usual. Lunchtime arrived and as I sat in the canteen making light work of a chicken fillet roll, my phone beeped. It was a message in our county panel group.

"Any you boys get gear recently with the club? We're looking to get some."

The poster was a member of one of our big rivals, the Reds. You'll recall some of my 'dealings' with them from previous columns. Our club had in fact gotten gear recently.

Was I arsed replying though? To a Reds clubman at that? I pocketed my phone and made a sizeable dent in my roll instead.

Later that evening I sat down with a cup of tea in front of the telly, as you do after a hard day's dossing. To my delight, the film Catch Me If You Can was scheduled for 9pm. I'd never seen it but had heard rave reviews.

Though there are no art classes with Kate Winslet, Leo's deceit-filled biographic of one of history's most effective conmen is now up there as my favourite of his films. Witnessing the sort of life his character led was astounding and, as the credits rolled, I sat back and reflected.

Then it hit me.

Everything fell into place. Eureka!

* * * * *

"We can give you this in red instead of blue? I tell you what. Keep that one."

"No you're alright. The last thing I want is a T-shirt with that crowd's logo on it!" he replied.

"You'll need it as a sample. Keep it and check all the lads for sizes. You can text me the order then, are we okay with the price?" I asked

"Seems reasonable, sure I'll text you on the order," he replied before shaking my hand.

We both returned to our cars. I looked on as he left before punching a number into my mobile.

"Hello Dan, have you a number for that company that got us the gear?"

Was what I was doing illegal? It was hard to know. I thought of it more as being opportunistic. Before this my entrepreneurial skills had peaked at the cattle mart. I'd invest in a couple of bullocks each year and try to make a couple of hundred euro a head by winter. But that was a slow turnaround and a bout of sickness or an injury could swallow up one's margin in a flash. This was different. I'd have my rewards within a couple of weeks. It was the perfect crime. A thick pair of sunglasses and a busy beard threw them off the scent. So far so good, their chairman hadn't suspected a thing at our first meeting and had seemed keen.

Once the order arrived, I would simply forward it on to the company that'd provided our gear.

Impersonating a sales rep isn't illegal, is it?

* * * * *

"I see you got the same training tops as ours lad. Nice job aren't they?"

Fast forward three weeks. We're sitting in the dressing room getting togged for training with the county and my colleague from the Reds is my immediate neighbour on the bench.

"Oh yeah, we did indeed horse, they're a nice job."

"Who looked after you from the company?" I asked, smirking uncontrollably.

"Oh I dunno who he was," he replied, as his head disappeared into a training vest.

"What stuff did you get?"

"Eh, training tops, bags, bottoms, a hoody and socks for €120 a man," he said.

"Really?" I asked. "Jaysus, our man did it for €100 a man . . ."

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