The Great California Game l-14 Read online

  The Great California Game

  ( Lovejoy - 14 )

  Jonathan Gash

  The Great California Game

  Lovejoy

  Jonathan Gash

  An STM digital back-up edition 1.0

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  Contents

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  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books USA Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,

  London W8 5TZ, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in the United States of America by St. Martin’s Press

  Reprinted by arrangement with St. Martin’s Press

  Published in Penguin Books 1992

  Copyright ©Jonathan Gash, 1991 All rights reserved

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGUED THE HARDCOVER AS FOLLOWS:

  Gash, Jonathan. The great California game / Jonathan Gash.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-06363-6 (hc.)

  ISBN 0 14 01.7224 6 (pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PR6057.A728G74 1991

  813'.914—dc20 91-20653

  also by Jonathan Gash

  The Sin Within Her Smile

  Paid and Loving Eyes

  The Lies of Fair Ladies

  The Very Last Gambado

  Jade Woman

  Moonspender

  The Tartan Sell

  Pearlhanger

  Firefly Gadroon

  The Gondola Scam

  The Vatican Rip

  Spend Game

  The Grail Tree

  Gold by Gemini

  The Judas Pair

  The Sleepers of Erin

  For

  Joan Kahn, with love

  This book is respectfully dedicated to

  the Chinese god Kuan Ti, patron saint of

  wandering antique dealers far from home

  Lovejoy

  CHAPTER ONE

  ^ »

  IN antiques, everything is women.

  Everything else is America.

  I’m a convert to America. Like a nerk, I’d always assumed the Olde Worlde was a cut above the Yanks. Now? Now, I can’t honestly see why they bother with the rest of us. They’ve got everything. Like beauty. Antiques. Wealth. And, strangely, innocence. So if you’re a confirmed Ami-hater, better swap tins quick for some improving literature, because this story’s how I fell in love with the place through the genteel world of antiques — meaning the hard way, via murder, robbery, fraud, larceny.

  Antiques make you live that way. I’m an antique dealer, every breath I breathe.

  I’d been in New York three days, and seen nothing but hurrying crowds. I worked in a bar eatery. From nothing, I’d already worked myself up to the lowest of the low.

  THE Benidormo Hotel was as cheap as dinge could make it. The dozy bloke at the reception desk—a couple of planks flaking paint — made me pay a night’s advance. His job was watching quiz shows. I tried to sound American, wrote my name as R. E. Lee, didn’t tell him I’d just arrived from Hong Kong with nearly nowt, and found the right floor by trudging because I mistrust lifts.

  A bird saw me in the gloomy corridor, a place for assassins. She was pleasantly laconic, overpainted. A little lad trailed her. I’m hopeless about kids’ ages. Seven, eight?

  “Can I help?”

  “No, thank you.” The key tag said this was it.

  She followed, stood looking from the doorway. “I mean can I… help. Twenty dollars’ worth.”

  I gauged her. This young, they should be at home worrying about term exams. “Unless you know where a job’s going.”

  She appraised me more frankly than I had her. I felt weighed. “What can you do?”

  “Anything.”

  “That means you can do shit,” she said elegantly. I was trying to appear cool and streetwise, but women can always suss me. “How long’re you here?”

  “Until I get enough to travel. I’m from California, studying in England.”

  “Don’t give me shit.” She made up her mind. “I’m Magda, next door. No banging the walls when I’m working, okay?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” That didn’t sound slick New Yorkese. “Sure,” I amended quickly. “Lovejoy.”

  She nodded. “Whatever you say, Mr Lee. You’re weird, y’know that? Try Fredo. Manfredi’s. He kicked a counterman.”

  “Fo’ crackin’ n’ smackin’.” The little lad rolled his eyes to show drug dementia.

  How had a kid this young learned about ecstasy? Magda saw my shock and said, “Zole, meet Lovejoy. Short for Zola.”

  “He’s soft sheet,” Zole said with scorn. “So’s Zola.”

  Maybe her brother? “Howdy, Zole. What time does Mr Fredo open?

  Her eyes widened. “Where you say you’re from?” She gave me one of those number sequences which are pinpoint addresses in this extraordinary country. “Get over there, Lovejoy. People’l! be standing in line.

  I thanked her, locked my door and left. She too was leaving, would have held back but I dithered so we left together, Zole trailing and bouncing a worn tennis ball. I warmed to her. Considerate. I just didn’t like the way she had me down as a prude. We walked a little way then she stepped into a doorway and wished me luck with the job. It might have hurt her feelings had I wished her luck with hers, so I merely said so long.

  “So long, Rube,” Zole called with derision. What did Zole do while Magda took her clients upstairs? A New York problem. Unsolvable.

  “LOVEJOY? Take the bar.”

  “Right, Fredo.”

  “And that jerk’s a chiseller. Watch the bucks.”

  “Right, guv.“ He meant a man at the end might try to evade paying. I didn’t know quite what a jerk meant, but it isn’t praise.

  Manfredi’s was as crowded as I’d yet seen it. I’d been lucky: Magda’s name had counted; Fredo gave me a chance because some employee had Monday bottle sickness. That first night I’d worked until closing time, frightened by the sense of this big city. I’d got myself hired, and threatened about behaviour.

  The drinks were a difficulty, contents I’d never encountered before, but at least I could clear tables and wash the bar counter.

  Fredo watched all dozen of us workers like a hawk. The first day I’d seen him fire two of the blokes for fiddling money and general slowness. It taught me New York’s message: earn your pay, or else. By the evening of the second day I’d memorized every drink, their prices, was hired on a daily basis.

  “Guv? What’s with this guv?” Fredo asked.

  Fredo often looked at me, amused by my strange speech.

  “Ah, it means boss, Fredo. Picked it up from the, er, Limeys.”

  He chuckled, an amiable man. “Sir yesterday, guv this. We’ll talk English, yet!”

  I chuckled along, grovelling being my strong suit when poverty’s trumps. I’d stuck to the
story I’d told Magda: I was heading back to California after years of studies in London. Lies come naturally to an antique dealer. I hinted I had a girl in New York, which was why I wanted this job.

  The other bar hand was late this third evening and the rush about to begin, so I tidied things and got started. I couldn’t help looking for the girl with the antique amber brooch.

  Tonight she was in early, eightish. Theatregoer? Meeting her bloke from work? She always—in NY three consecutive nights count always — placed herself away from the door. I gave her a smile. That amber Agnus Dei brooch again. I tore my eyes away and started my job, saying “Coming ride up!” and “Awl ridee” like I thought everybody else was doing. Mr Manfredi had this complex system of double invoicing, which caused me a deal of trouble. But I’d mastered it, because I’d seen what happened to waiters who didn’t. The idea in these American bars is there’s a counter where customers perch on stools, while elsewhere floor space has tables for a waitress service. It sounds a rum arrangement, but it works. A dozen tables, swing doors onto Eighth Avenue so you could glimpse those fantastically long motors everybody drives, a score of customers, and that was Manfredi’s Manhattan Style Eatery. Oh, I forgot to mention the talk—God, but Americans chat. And they do it to anyone, even though they’ve not been properly introduced, or have any reason. I’d never heard so many opinions—weather, politics, sport, traffic, the Middle East. That you might disagree counts nil. Strangely, I was starting to like it. You could say anything to anyone about anything any time. Surprising.

  The chiseller proved no problem this particular evening. He was three parts sloshed and gradually slumped to a foetal posture less than three drinks and an hour after the boss had left. Josephus, our giant waiter who sang the livelong day, threw him out towards nine.

  “Hey, Josephus,” I said soon after that interlude. “What time’s Mr Manfredi back?” At this social level, you start everything with Hey or Say-my-man. I was blending in.

  “Doo any second, Lovejoy ma man.”

  A bit odd. I remembered Fredo’s words: thirty minutes. He never missed checking the till money. I clocked the time. Two whole hours, and no sign.

  But it was a normal evening otherwise. The punters came and went. I served the vodkas, learned two more drinks recipes for my armoury. People from work, offices, the shops disgorging folk into Manfredi’s. I can’t help looking at people, wondering why they’re in a nosh bar instead of home. The trouble was, three days and I’d seen nothing of America except that taxi ride from the airport, my grotty little pad with Magda plying her trade in the next room. And here.

  “New Yorkers live on the hoof,” a woman’s voice explained.

  “I was just wondering.” My words were out before I saw who’d spoken.

  She’d finished her meal, an enormous salady thing of avocado and chicken in deep crisp-heart lettuce foliage. That’s another American thing, the meals. I’d never seen so much on a plate.

  “Nobody home cooks.”

  Her Agnus Dei wasn’t as ancient as some, but brooches like hers are unusual. Once, new Popes issued wax Lambs for wearing in silver discs. This wasn’t one, but could easily have been except for the amber. My chest bonged faintly the nearer I moved. Genuine antique. Norwegian? Swedish? She saw me looking. I went quickly to serve a lady’s martini in that fearsome high-gin New York formula.

  “You like my brooch?” Persistent.

  “The Scandinavians’ Agnus Dei pendants were usually silver. Amber’s such a Baltic thing.”

  She was mid-twenties, shrouded against the autumn cool, and pale featured. Long hair, nothing spectacularly fashionable. Slight, quiet, always reading.

  “You know about such things?” Her grey-blue gaze took in my lapel badge. “Lovejoy’s some kinda name.”

  “It’s all I have, miss.”

  She rocked with silent laughter and mouthed: Miss? I went a bit red, stepped down the counter to punish a suited gent with a treble bourbon. I’d quickly learned that Americans drink booze through shovelfuls of ice, God knows why. Even their beer has to be freezing. No, honest. It’s quite true. Go and see for yourself.

  “Sorry, Lovejoy,” she said when I drifted past her end. “I’m a New Yorker. Rose Hawkins. Can you price it?”

  See what I mean? Straight to essentials. In sleepy old East Anglia getting down to a valuation would take a fortnight.

  “I’d need a good light. But it’ll keep you a month. Around 1800 AD.”

  “That fits.”

  She looked at me curiously. For a few minutes I had to hear about baseball from three geezers, regulars in for the bar telly. Baseball—an unknowable ritual resembling our women’s rounders—is as baffling as American rugby, which is all I ever hope to say about them for ever and ever. These fans kept explaining the ins and outs of the damned thing since they’d spotted my ignorance. Every religion craves converts.

  “It was my great-grandmother’s,” she told me next pass.

  “Don’t give me provenance, love, not without documentation. I’ve…” I caught myself.

  “You’ve…?”

  “I’ve heard it’s safer. Never mind what dealers and auctioneers tell you.”

  “Been to the exhibition, Lovejoy?”

  “Exhibition?” I was casual, doing the mystique with ice and gin for a newspaper vendor. He called every second hour.

  “Antiques. It’s only two blocks, if you’re interested.”

  Interested? I’d give almost anything. “I haven’t time off. I’m new here… I mean, I’m new back.”

  For a second I was proud of my vernacular, shortening my adverb; or whatever it is, American fashion. She began to ask me where I was from, all that. I gave her the Californian back from England, desultory patter between hurtling orders for drinks.

  Then I noticed the kitchen was being closed. Last orders for grub. Lil the elderly boss waitress was collecting the invoice chits. Ten o’clock? Only nearby Apple Jack’s stayed open later than us. No Mr Manfredi.

  “Hey, Josephus,” I asked the big bloke. “Fredo back?” Dunno, man. I’m zoomin’, Lovejoy.”

  “Doan look at me, honey,” Lil called.

  A couple of customers gave amused advice. A lass left the kitchen, calling goodnights. The mousey-haired brooch girl stayed, said she was from some place called Greenwich Village. Like a nerk I asked politely how often she went home to visit. She seemed puzzled. I hoped it wasn’t anywhere near California. Being merely one more illegal immigrant working for the Almighty Dollar makes you edgy. Fredo had twice asked for my social security number. Not having any idea what that was, I’d told him I’d bring it in tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

  Outside the traffic was still hard at it, zooming to and fro. Police sirens were a standard feature, I knew by now. The first night I’d twice got up from my pit to see what was happening, but by my second night I was impervious, by today oblivious. New York’s siren song, always there.

  Josephus had called closing several times. Finally the brooch made to leave, smiling.

  “Goodnight, Lovejoy.”

  I was wiping the counter, washing glasses, keeping an anxious eye on the door for Fredo, not knowing what to do. Delia, our cash-cheque lady, was locking up her pedestal and handing me the keys and donning her coat. I told Rose goodnight.

  She left in the same door-swing as Delia. Everybody was yelling goodnights to me, people giving me keys. Josephus was singing his folksy way out. I was desperate. He declined Delia’s keys.

  “Dowan tra me, Lovejoy. I’m singin’ in ma club tonight.”

  “Oh, aye.” I’d forgotten. His big chance, some melody he’d written.

  Which left worried me, the customers all departed, the greasy keys from the kitchen’s street entrance on the counter. And Manfredi’s Manhattan Style Eatery empty. Except for two cash registers loaded with money. Waiting. Gulp. Hurry back, Fredo.

  Outside, sirens whooped. I stood there by my clean bar, wondering what to do. I went and turned off the
lights in the kitchen. Only one storey, thank God, so no upstairs to worry about. I called a feeble inquiry into the Ladies’ loos, checked the Gents’ for lurking figures. I was alone.

  With all that money.

  Fredo’s home number? I hunted high and low. I tried the New York telephone book, my first experience. Its size took my breath away. There was a Greenwich Village actually here in New York. And a Bronx! No wonder Rose stared when I’d asked her what state she hailed from… Well, might as well look for an Italian name in a haystack. I gave up, took off my apron, stood there like a spare tool, thinking worried thoughts.

  My doss house hotel was a couple of miles southwest, so no chance of popping round to ask guidance from the dozy old bloke. Magda I’d hardly glimpsed since my arrival. Lock up? Last night Fredo’d winkled out some tipsy customer with vigorous expletives and mucho muscle. Bums had to be slung out no matter what, and everybody was a threatening bum until proved otherwise. This morning I’d heard Delia telling Josephus how she’d been mugged in broad daylight, her purse stolen with its credit cards. Danger land.

  I bolted the door, but its lock was electronic—tap its buttons in the right sequence or it doesn’t obey — so I achieved nothing more.

  Money, though.

  All American money looks alike—hundred-dollar notes look like ones, fifties look like the rest. Weird. All decimal, of course, so my trick of translating into the simpler old pre-decimal guineas, pounds, crowns, florins, shillings, tanners, threepenny joeys, pence and farthings, which everybody could understand, wouldn’t work here.

  Homesick and forlorn, I made myself some coffee, putting a coin on the till for it, and sat wondering about the USA, with its enormous meals and streets all numbered in order so you couldn’t get lost and everybody so cheery and… Like Rose, for instance. So direct, so willing to smile and talk. Most odd. So unlike us. I mean, as recently as 1989 Lord Dacre threatened to resign because his Savile Club decided to allow members to talk during breakfast, the bounders.