The Great California Game l-14 Read online

  “Lovejoy?”

  Sophie was asking me something. She’d come to stand beside me. I turned away from the pewters, heartbreak coming easy.

  “Shhhh.” I put my finger to her lips. “I promise I’ll help Denzie.”

  “You will?”

  My brain resigned, stormed out of ken shrieking abuse and insults. But what could I do? She was closer, letting her hands touch my jacket and gradually raising her gaze from my chest towards my face and then opening her mouth ever so slightly and keeping her eyes fixed on my mouth as she gave the gentlest of tugs so we were closer than ever and what could I do when it’s women decide every single time?

  “DARLING?”

  Sophie moved with a woman’s awkwardness from sin into confession. I never have any problem shifting these gears. They do. Mmmmmh?

  Women’s greatest—maybe only—mistake is to chatter straight after love’s made. Beats me why. What’s there to say? But they find something, anything. If ever I find a woman willing to stay mum during that transitory death after loving, I’d love her for nowt. I know I keep on about this.

  “Darling. I didn’t… you know? Just to… y’know, Lovejoy?”

  “Mmmh?” (See? They don’t even know themselves.)

  “I don’t want you to think, well, just because.”

  “Mmmh.”

  “You don’t, do you?” Apprehension raised the ending, so a denial would suit best.

  I gave up, carried the small death along, rolled over to find her propped on one elbow. The bedroom was semi-dark, curtains drawn. We were a million feet off the ground, but she’d had to ensure we were safe from the prying balloonists.

  “Look, love.” I couldn’t stop looking at her breasts. She covered them by gathering her nightdress with her spare hand. I hadn’t remembered her donning a nightie, but orthodoxy rules. “If you think I’m that cynical, then —”

  She shushed me. “I just want to hear you say you don’t think that way.”

  “Do I need to, love?” I’m easily confused. Was she asking me to deny an affirmative based on a denial of a suspicion… or the opposite?

  “Please.”

  “Very well.” No chance of escaping with a light laugh. I cupped her lovely face. “Sophie Brandau, your anxieties are unfounded. I admire you. I fell for you instantly. I’m head over heels in love with you.” I gave her a quiet smile, my sincerity revealed.

  She sighed in relief. The answer she’d needed was in there somewhere.

  “Thank you.” She lay back, thinking. I waited. After confession, the penance. They go for both together. Sometimes I wonder if it’s women whose instincts determine religious liturgy. You could make out quite a case.

  “Lovejoy. Were you… shocked by, well, by it all?”

  What the hell now? “You want the truth?” I asked with reluctance. “Yes, quite frankly. It was something…” Words are such sods. I never know which ones women want.

  “I knew it, darling. I could tell. But you must realize. America’s a harsh country. Below the surface we don’t make any allowances. It’s dog-eat-dog. The California Game’s that.”

  At last I was in. A moment’s thought, so as not to spoil the drift of her talk, then, “But why need it be quite so… ?”

  Women are good at jumping to conclusions, even when other people haven’t the faintest idea what they’re talking about.

  “Enormous is America’s way— And it isn’t necessarily corrupt. The sports percentages would still get slipped to some syndicate no matter who was playing the championship. Political nominations always have been fixed. Drug companies have done secret deals ever since they were quoted on Wall Street. Drugs arrive in tons, not ounces, so payola rolls on over all Federal enforcement agencies. It’s the American way to grab a piece of the action. A percentage of major-city real-estate development always gets hived off…”

  Antiques, business, labour movements, union dues, local politics, imports. I listened, wondering. Game? Stakes?

  “I just wish it had stayed at that level for Denzie’s sake. But ever since Moira’s crazy idea that he’d have a cast-iron presidential ticket, he’s been like a mad thing. It was Moira’s idea to add it to the stake.”

  “Shhh, love,” I said. “Hold together for a moment. Forget all this. You’ve an ally at last.”

  We lay embracing, langour and warmth stealing over us.

  “Darling?” she said at last.

  “Yes, love.”

  “Are there… are there different ways of making love?

  Sometimes, women don’t expect uncertainty. They’re positive we blokes know everything about sex. You lose credibility by showing hesitancy. It’s one of the few times reflexes come to help. Even my brain went along this time. We answered jointly in the affirmative.

  ORLY delivered me at Bethune’s, by 74th Street near Columbus Avenue. I grumbled because I was starving, and Anita’s Chili Parlor exuded aromas that made me weak at the knees. Even if it was spelled wrong—America’s got rotten spelling—we could give it a try. Orly wouldn’t hear of it, hurried me in.

  The place itself was another disappointment. The showroom was nearly bare, with a few Edwardian bits of furniture, a silver salver or two, a scatter of paintings that had yet to age into conviction, a couple of scientific instruments—a microscope, sextant, a couple of timepieces—of modern design. Fatty Jim Bethune came to greet us, cigar in pollution phase, waistcoat bristling pens.

  “Lovejoy, huh? You’re going to revitalize the antiques stake, huh?”

  “How do.” I put out a hand. He ignored it, shouted to a matronly assistant to take five, and wheezed into a captain’s chair—fake, lacquered brass studs, railings set into coarse six-ply. We sat on a poor 1940s couch fraying in a desperate attempt at authenticity.

  Orly gave me a warning glance. Whatever it was, I was in the California Game now. Gina’d said so. Presumably just as much as this gentleman. We were all evidently sharing one stake.

  “He doesn’t know much about the Game, Jim,” Orly said.

  “Then what the hell? Sheet, this ain’t no nursery.”

  “He’s a divvy, a scammer from the old country.”

  “Jees.” Bethune wheezed, coughed, spat phlegm into a huge handkerchief. His hair flopped with every breath, side to side with metronomic regularity. I watched it, fascinated. “What you do, Lovejoy?”

  “Do?”

  “Jesus H. Christ.” He stared. His eyes were rheumy close to, set small into putty features. “You think N’York’s a pushover? That it?”

  “Well, actually —”

  “You listen up, dumbo.” He leant forward to prod. “Jennie passes word, okay we got to. But you’re shit here, right?”

  The pause seemed long to me, but maybe it was infinitesimal. He took my silence as meekness. He was nearly right.

  Ash fell onto his waistcoat. He looked shop soiled. It crossed my mind that maybe Jim Bethune was less than superb at running the antiques side of things for the Aquilinas and their stake in the Game. Maybe I was here as a stopgap? Catalyst?

  “We raise our part of the stake, Lovejoy. From antiques. You heard antiques?” His flab oscillated with merriment, settled as the wheezes died. “We take a cut of selected prices from the auction houses. We’re currently adding a national museum to our contributions…” More splutters of amusement. “… They start contributing next week. In time for any little card playing we might wanta do.”

  I waited for the jubilation to lessen. “How do you make them chip in?”

  His eyes were beads through a smoke veil.

  “This dumbo’s going to raise our ante, Orly?”

  Orly smiled weakly.

  Bethune spoke quite kindly, as if he’d realized at last that I was no threat.

  “We make a bomb threat against a museum, right? It’s glad to pay a little, stop them bad old bombs. Same with auction houses. It’s regular money.”

  “You accept payment how?”

  His pleasantry evaporated. �
�That’s no concern of yours, boy, and don’t you —”

  He stubbed his cigar, lit a fresh one from a humidor younger than himself. In an antiques warehouse? But I was all attention to this mastermind, and clearly listening with nothing less than total admiration.

  “Pay? Okay. They see Bethune’s gets antiques to the value of the protection money. I sell, and that forms the stake, see? It’s simple, easy.”

  “That’s amazing, Mr Bethune!” I exclaimed. “Don’t they go to the police?”

  I felt Orly stir, as if he suspected pretence.

  “Police, Lovejoy?” Bethune grinned, charred teeth sausaged in two rolls of pink blubber. “We got friends there.”

  I warned myself not to overdo it. “But suppose this museum doesn’t pay up?”

  He was amused at my naivety. “Why, a little fire in their basement. Nothing serious.”

  “Marvellous, Mr Bethune,” I said, clearly thrilled. “Well, thank you for explaining. Is there anything you want me to do? I’m ready to help.”

  He smirked at the very thought. “Not yet, Lovejoy. I’ll be sure and let you know.”

  “Orly. Anything else to add?” I asked meekly.

  He was puzzled, but a little wary. “No. Jim’s covered it all.”

  I rose, smiled, said thanks. “Then I’d better report in. Can I use your phone, Mr Bethune?”

  There was one on the wall nearby. I rang the number, got the girl with the mechanical voice.

  “Lovejoy. Urgent for Mrs. Aquilina, please.”

  Waiting to be connected, I smiled at Bethune, who was telling Orly about some joker who’d wanted to negotiate a reduction in the protection fee. Fatty was very, very relieved I’d proved such a mug.

  “Gina? Lovejoy. I’ve just finished with Mr Bethune. Yes, Orly’s here.” I listened, nodding as she asked if everything was satisfactory. “Yes, definitely. Mr Bethune’s done a perfectly neat job. Pleasing himself. He’s a dud. Replace him forthwith. Brains of a rocking horse.”

  The line was silent a moment. Gina asked, “Can he hear this?”

  “Yes. Bethune’s right here.” I looked back. Bethune’s complexion had gone muddy, his eyes currants in plaster. I gave attention to the phone. “Still there, love?”

  “That was unwise, Lovejoy. You should have —”

  “No orders in antiques, love. Anything else, I’ll hear and obey. This cret’s ripping you off. He’s taking a double cut, first on the levy, then on the antiques’ selling price. He’s hiving.”

  “Hiving?”

  “Taking a toll on every transaction. Your income’s less than half what it should be. Before you ask, no, he’s not told me the figures.”

  “What action do you recommend, Lovejoy?”

  “Do I get paid this time?”

  She got the joke. “No. You’re being well paid—in dollars. Jennie’s fixed your account today. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

  “However much, it’s second best.” Into her gentle laugh I said, “Bethune— Save him. Demote to second advisor.”

  “But Orly has other duties. So who’ll be first?”

  “Me.”

  “I might have guessed.” She hesitated. “One thing, Lovejoy. After what you said, you’ve got to raise the income for our stake in the California Game. You understand? Whatever Bethune raised, you must double.”

  My throat was suddenly dry. Maybe Sophie had taken more out of me than I’d realized. “I understand.”

  “I’ll send immediate help, in case.” A pretty hesitation, then, “Good luck, Lovejoy.”

  I hung up. “Right, lads,” I told the pair cheerfully. “Let’s get down to it. Jim, you’re sacked. Okay?”

  They’d both risen, appalled. The antique dealer was gazing across at the windows, the low-grade antiques, as his world imploded. Orly was motionless. He was an irritation, this one.

  “Gina’s sending a team along. Here, Orly. Do you reckon that Anita’s place does takeaways? Hop across and bring some grub. I’m starving.”

  He moved towards the phone. Enemies nark me. especially as I’d done nothing to make him my foe. “No, Orly. Bring it yourself. Plenty of them bread things. And be quick about it—or I’ll tell teacher.”

  Orly was white. He swallowed, exhaled long and steadily. The effort to walk out of the door was superhuman, but he did it. Thoughtfully I watched him go. Funny, that. It raised the question of whether Gina was in league with the private scam Orly was running, or whether he was in it only with Fatty Bethune. But I’d peeped from Mrs. van Cordlant’s kitchen, and seen Bethune and Denzie Brandau paying her a clandestine visit, which raised the question of whether… My head ached.

  “Jim,” I said quietly to the fat man. “A quick word.”

  A limo slid to a stop outside, illegal parking. Tye Dee and three Suits alighted, came in. I waved. “Wotcher, Tye. Can you have a quick shufti round, see the doors are locked, and bring the staff? That means everybody, okay?” I was beginning to like this okay at the end of everything. It was sort of inviting, friendly. Tye scattered his people. A neat dapper bloke entered carrying a briefcase. I sighed. Accountants were arriving.

  “The office, please. Impound all files, get them in some sort of order, okay?”

  “Right.” He beckoned a clone and a secretary to follow.

  “Right, Jim,” I said quietly. “Tell all. Including the private thing you’ve got going with You-Know-Who, okay?” I nodded to the street, terse and cryptic to show I wasn’t bluffing even if I was. “Orly’ll be back in a minute. It’s as long as you’ve got.”

  I was in a hurry to find Magda.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  « ^ »

  THE Benidormo had slipped into almost total decay. The desk man had crumpled into dust the instant his telly cooled. The phone was layered in rime. I once saw a sea village flooded on the spring tide. This foyer looked like the aftermath without marine life stirring beneath the tatty carpet. Nobody about. For reassurance I went back to peer into the street, shivered, went upstairs to my room wondering if the world had vanished without me. Eerily, a western saga was shooting off to no Zole. For once I was glad to hear a rhythmic pounding from Magda’s room.

  Ten minutes, then the bloke left. Magda’s abuse was crisper than before, more desperate in a way I found hideous. She followed him along the corridor yelling invective. His growled reply was inaudible. I gave her a few moments’ grace, tapped on the door. It flung open.

  “Who the sheet… ? Lovejoy! You’re…”

  “Here,” I said. “Hello, Magda.”

  Her hair was embattled, her face marked. Derelict is as derelict does, where a woman’s appearance is concerned. I used to think women were barmy, forever at mirrors with paints. I now admit they’re infallibly right about make-up. In fact I’d go so far as to say that cosmetics are essential, the thicker and gaudier the better. You can’t have too much, though women of course think the opposite, being wrong again.

  She looked ninety, haggard, death on sticks.

  “In yours, Lovejoy. Not here.”

  She doused the telly, did that swish of hair and sat on the edge of the bed. The lazy hotel swine hadn’t made it. How many nights had it been since I’d last slept there?

  “He beat you up?”

  “A couple since.” She had a sort of defiance, as if she expected me to whale into her too. Odd, because I’m never really narked with people, not often.

  “How are you managing, Magda?”

  “Not as good as you, Lovejoy. Fancy suiting, handmade shoes. Your lady’s a spender.”

  “How’s Zole?”

  “Okay. He brung good two days.”

  “Stolen stuff?”

  Magda lit a cigarette. She was spoiling for a fight. Her clothes were ragbag, shoes on the welts and soiled. When a woman’s lipstick gets ragged at the edges, it’s all up.

  “Lovejoy, you stupid fucka, listen up. That set’s here as a signal, see? Zole brings his loot when it’s off, stays away when it’s on. I’m g
etting rubbed off the street out there. Girls team up when hooker bookers move in.” She was trembling, smoking in drags, pluming the blue aside from a twisted mouth. “You’re just too stupid, okay?” She dabbed at her hair, surrendered.

  One thing I’m bad at is knowing what to say when a bird weeps. I wish we’d been taught things like this at school, instead of calcium chloride and the Corn Laws.

  “When you didn’t come back, Lovejoy, I thought they’d…”

  Done for me? I had money to give her, but not straight off. I’m not as dim as all that.

  “I need your help, Magda.”

  She looked up at me from the bed, disbelieving. “Help? Shag’s all I do.”

  “I may be going somewhere.” I paused too long. “Okay? I need somebody I can trust.”

  “Lovejoy. I got something to tell you —”

  I shoved her down when she tried to stand. Give me a battered bone-weary prostitute, I’m as tough as they.

  “I know about the phone calls to Tye, how much you were paid.”

  She was baffled. “Whyn’t you beat me?”

  “I have people for that now, love. They’re better at it.” Not much of a joke, but she calmed with a non-smile. I didn’t quite know how far to risk the little I knew. There’s that Arabian saying, isn’t there: doubt your friend, sleep with your enemy.

  “If I’ve guessed right, I’ll be travelling out of New York, several places, in a hurry.”

  “Somebody after you?”

  “No. But I’ll need somebody around,” The surprised understanding in her eyes made me speed through a denial. “Not a bird wanted on voyage. I need somebody close by to do the occasional job, keep contact, be at certain places.”

  “You want me? What about —?”

  “Take Zole. I’ll pay you, and fares.”

  She was casting about the space just as Fat Jim Bethune had.

  “Outa N’York? I never been…”

  “You’ll need clothes, Magda.” I’m always wary about telling women things about their gear. “Though your frock’s pretty, er, smart, love, it might, er…”

  “I’m in fuckin rags, Lovejoy.” She ran a finger across her cheek against wetness. “Is this up real, Lovejoy?”