The Great California Game l-14 Page 15

  I pulled out a small wad. Bethune’s money, until I’d given harsh orders to the accountant.

  “Dress Zole reasonable, nothing way out. And don’t take any lip from him. He’s coming. I’ll need him for a couple of specific theft jobs. Okay?”

  She looked. “How d’you know I’ll not blow the money?”

  “I trust you. Don’t show yourselves in your new stuff, or somebody’ll guess. Be here every even hour from midday tomorrow, twelve o’clock, two o’clock. Understand? Ready to go.”

  “Lovejoy, I’m scared.” She still hadn’t put the money away, but her pocket was torn and she’d left her handbag in her room. “I’m not… so good at reliable.”

  She was scared? I nearly did clout her one when she said that. I drew slow breath. “Magda. This is your frigging country, not mine. You’ve got to look after me, okay? You just remember I’m the one who’s got to be looked after, not selfish cows like you.”

  She appraised me, nodding slowly. Age was slowly fading into youth. A glim of a smile nearly showed.

  “You’re right about that, Lovejoy. Deedy.”

  Different woman, same opinion. “First job’s to collect something from the airport.” I passed her a piece of paper with a flight number. In the safety of Zole’s absence I’d dared a phone call to Easy Boyson, who’d been going mad. It’s a stiff envelope. You’ll have to pay out of that money. Bring it with you.”

  We said a number of okays, some doubtful. She headed for a mirror. I left then.

  THE cocktail party I was made to attend could have been better placed. I mean, New York’s galleries and museums are famous. Think how superb a splash in some prestigious museum would be, with antiques and paintings all around so you needn’t see people swallowing oysters and stabbing each other. Instead, you could respond to the melodious chimes of a Wedgwood jasper, a Blake drawing, see the brilliant leaves tumble on a Sisley canvas.

  But it was a posh hotel. We swigged, noshed the groaning buffet and everybody talked. The people were all there from the boat, including Moira, Commissioner Kilmer, Denzie and Sophie—the former paying little attention to Moira except when their looks accidentally lingered. Good old Melodie van Cordlant was there, meaningful with glances and arm squeezes. Jennie was with everyone, curt except with Nicko on whom she fawned. Orly clung to Gina, talking loudly and occupying her every moment. Berto Gordino, lawyer of this parish, came with Kelly Palumba, for whom Epsilon the showbiz magnate competed in shrill tones. Kelly looked a million quid. Long might it last, I thought. Monsignor O’Cody was last to come. Jim Bethune was at the far end of the room, now in his Sunday best, being spoken to by Tye Dee in an undertone. Hey ho, I thought with sympathy.

  “Canapés, sir?”

  “Ta, Chanel. Home team playing today, eh?”

  I was the only one eating. All the rest were swilling at other troughs.

  Chanel checked we weren’t overheard, said, “Always is the home team, Lovejoy. You gotta believe it.”

  Mr Granger called out that all guests were invited through into the conference salon, where drinks would be available. I complained that I’d only just started, but there was a concerted rush for the double doors. I grabbed a load of rolls, cheese, some slabs of egg-looking thing, while Blanche hurriedly loaded up more for me. No pasties, and biscuits are New York’s lack—mind you, they’d only have tons of cinnamon in. I was last into the long room.

  Places were marked, as for a wedding reception. Kelly had started giggling, was being shushed by Epsilon and Berto Gordino. I found my name card between those of Orly and Gina.

  Nicko appeared, with Jennie, took the position of authority.

  “Jim Bethune sends his apologies, friends.” He had one small piece of paper before him, served up by Jennie. “Lovejoy’s taking his place from now on.”

  “Is that legit, Nicko?” Denzie Brandau asked easily, smiling round the table. “First I heard of it.”

  “It is, Denzie,” Nicko seemed oblivious of the sudden silence. “Any questions?”

  “Where exactly does Lovejoy take over from Jim?” Charlie Sarpi asked. I wondered how he managed his moustache. Sophie prevented herself from giving him the bent eye just in time. Gina was watching her across the phony mahogany.

  “Right away, Charlie. Every level.”

  “Look, Nicko.” Denzie did that politician’s shift to indicate exasperation. It consists of obliquely arranging his trunk, plonking a hand firmly on the table, arm outstretched, and crossing his legs. “Who is this Lovejoy? I mean, where’s the beef?”

  “Lovejoy’ll double the antiques stake, Denzie. There’s the beef.”

  A ripple of interest ran round the table. Monsignor O’Cody peered down at me, specs gleaming.

  “How’ll he do that, Nicko?” Commissioner Kilmer barked. It was honestly that, a sharp yap, grossly out of keeping with his tall bulk. I don’t know what he’d been like as a young bobby, but even ageing as he was he put the fear of God in me.

  The silence meant me. I was eating my grub, which I’d made into rolls. I can’t resist anything in bread. I hurried the mouthful, swallowed.

  “Lovejoy?” Nicko said.

  “No, thanks.”

  The silence now meant ???

  “What the hell’s that mean, Nicko?”

  “Stay calm, J.J.” Nicko let me swallow, come up for air. “Lovejoy. You must bring in double what Jim Bethune did. Do you know how much that is?”

  “Yes, Nicko.”

  His hands opened expressively. He was so patient, but getting quieter. Any minute those dark lasers he used for eyes might actually swivel onto me and sear the inside of my skull. I didn’t want that.

  “Are your methods so secret they can’t be divulged?”

  “Nicko.” I shoved my tray away, showing my sincerity. “I’m out of my depth here. Oh, I’ll get the gelt.”

  Nicko’s gaze charred nearer, less than a yard from my right shoulder. Even Gina leant away. “With help?”

  “Yes. I’ll need two helpers, full time.” Before anybody could cut in, I started my spiel. “See, I don’t know who’s on our side, Nicko. I know you are. And Gina. And I think Jennie. But these other ladies and gentlemen I don’t even know. I don’t know what the stake is to be—everything I cull from antiques? And for what?” I tried to spread my hands like Nicko but it didn’t work and I felt a prat so put them away. “This Game, Nicko. Tell me who’s got a right to know, and I’ll come clean about my methods, every detail.”

  “The Game in Manhattan is finished, Lovejoy.” Nicko looked at Jennie, got an imperceptible assent. “On the Gina. Remember?”

  “I was behind the bar, Nicko.”

  “He’s stupid,” Commissioner J.J. Kilmer barked.

  Nicko nearly smiled, leant forward. “Let’s hope you’re not this stupid about old furniture, Lovejoy. The Game. We’re the players, Lovejoy. At first, we play against each other here in Manhattan. The stakes are based on personal… wealth.” Now he did smile. I wished he hadn’t. “It’s up to each player to raise his or her stake. Nobody is allowed to default. The stakes can come from anywhere.”

  “Tell him,” Jennie put in. It sounded a question but wasn’t.

  “If a player were to bring personal cash, Lovejoy, we’d be limited to however much he or she could withdraw from a bank account, right? So we accept promissory notes. Then the sum waged can be relatively huge.”

  Jennie took over. “Very damaging, Lovejoy, in a city where any major withdrawal is noticed by Manhattan’s wallet watchers.” She held the pause, waited for my nod.

  “And you can bet next year’s takings?”

  Jennie smiled. “You got it, Lovejoy. If the bet’s mega dollar, and based on certain illegal practices —”

  “Not that word, please,” from Berto Gordino in anguish. “From selected activities, Lovejoy.”

  Once a lawyer, I thought.

  “— Why, it’s easy to handle. Suppose a Police Commissioner were to bet fifty per cent of the police hac
k and lost, okay? He’d simply raise his hack. That’s the stake.”

  I looked round the table. Bullion prices would be lifted fractionally to provide the losing margin if Melodie lost. Hadn’t she said something about Monsignor O’Cody fiddling the diocesan funds? Politics was Denzie Brandau’s wager—presumably he peddled influence in the time-honoured way, for a price. Charlie Sarpi was a drugs man, Kelly Palumba the real-estate queen, Epsilon the showbiz hacker…

  “If the game’s over, what’re we all here for?”

  “Because you lost, Lovejoy.”

  “I what?”

  Nicko smiled. His eyes were miles off now, thank God. “Everybody here pays their losses into the kitty. That kitty’s the stake when we get to LA. For the California Game.”

  “Thus getting a share in the New York wager.” Jennie was dying to spiel out a load of figures. I could tell.

  “Which I shall bet for us all in —”

  “— In the California Game,” I said. “All New York? One bet?”

  “He makes it sound unfair,” J.J. said, inventing the wheel with his first-ever try at irony. People chuckled.

  Melodie intervened, dear thing. “You see, Lovejoy, we gamble to see who wins here. In New York, see? In Florida, why, they’re doing the same thing. Then there’s four bets come from the Mid-West, six from California, one from Washington…”

  “The Game itself’s held yearly, Lovejoy. Each bet’s the product of sectored interests.” Nicko shrugged. “It’s up to each to get the best possible finance behind them. The bigger the stake, the bigger the win.

  “What’s the Game? Cards? Roulette?”

  Nicko chuckled, hailstones on tin. “The entire loot of the nation, Lovejoy.”

  “For twelve months,” Jennie amended. “Shared among us, in proportion as stated. The Game on the Gina was to decide who plays in LA and the total stake.”

  I drew breath to ask my one remaining question, but Orly was already sniggering. “Except you, Lovejoy,” he said. “You’re the one here with no share. Yet.”

  “Methods, Lovejoy?” Nicko could afford to look all cool. He’d won megamillions. Except now he had to gamble it for higher stakes still.

  “I said double Bethune’s stake,” I reminded him calmly. “I meant quadruple.”

  He tilted his head Jennie’s way as if interrogatingly. “It’s in ten days, Lovejoy. Nobody could possibly hack so many millions from antiques in so few days.”

  “Anybody lend me an aeroplane, please?” I asked, rising. “And I’ll need a bank account — paying-in purposes only.”

  “A moment, Lovejoy,” Gina said, but I twisted my hand free.

  “I can hear them clearing away the grub out there. I’m starving.” I gave a bright smile down the lines of faces. “Can I get anybody anything… ?”

  I just caught Blanche and Chanel wheeling the last trayfuls out, thoughtless cows. They only laughed when I ballocked them about it. You’d think women’d learn, wouldn’t you? It’s a wonder that I’m so patient. I warned them that one day I’d lose my temper altogether, but they only laughed all the more. It’s no good trying to tell women off. They’re like infants, only laugh and think you’re daft.

  Somebody inside had come to a decision by the time I returned with my tray. Nicko promised a private jet, two goons, a secretary, and licence to travel.

  Nobody mentioned chains, but they’d be there, they’d be there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  « ^ »

  JENNIE was efficiency itself, I’ll give her that.

  Thirty lasses came, mostly skilled, beautiful, drivingly ambitious. I picked a small timid bird called Prunella, in specs, clumsy, dressed plain. No wonder the US excels. I didn’t know a hundred words per minute was humanly possible. They all knew computers and could start instantly. I was worn out, told Prunella to start in twenty

  “You’ll never regret this, Lovejoy,” she told me with solemnity. “This is my greatest opportunity, travelling secretary. I’ve always been a halfway girl, y’know? Sort of nearly getting there —”

  “Prunella,” I said. “Rule one: not much talk.”

  “You got it, Lovejoy.”

  We were alone in the foyer of the Pennsylvania. “There’s another thing, Prunella. I’ll need certain, er, commercial tasks done in great secrecy. They’ll fall to you.”

  She was over the moon. “Economic espionage!” she whispered. “Lovejoy, rely on Prunella!”

  I was to remember that, later.

  MY team assembled at Pennsylvania Station. Tye was along, of course, monolithically, saying nothing. I’d told him not to come armed, and he’d agreed. I didn’t believe him. He needed a secret howitzer. I had a first real look at Prunella in action: today with obvious contact lenses a foot deep and extraordinary flying elbows, as if protecting her files. I’d slimmed my team down to just us, was now having misgivings about my wisdom.

  “Prunella,” I said wearily as she scattered her files all over the coffee shop for the umpteenth time.

  “Sorry, Lovejoy.” She retrieved them.

  Jim Bethune arrived, gave Tye the bent eye.

  “I don’t believe this,” he said. “Us? Up the stake in the ’ckin Game?”

  Travellers were pouring past. Touts were touting. We were scrunged up at a small table, at least those of us not dropping folders. The coffee was dire, first bad quaff in this wonderful land.

  “Which museum are you milking, Jim?” If he had any thoughts of undermining my position, now was the time to disillusion him.

  “Lovejoy,” he said, confidence swelling, “this is between you and me, right? I don’t discuss business in shitholes.”

  “Tye,” I said evenly, “get rid of him.”

  Tye rose, hauled him upright.

  “Wait a minute, Lovejoy. I don’t mean —”

  I gave him my saddest. “Jim. You’ve blown your one chance. Goodbye, and good luck.”

  He clawed desperately to stay by the table as Tye started leaning towards the exit. A boy with a white forage cap by the popcorn stand edged nervously into the walkway.

  “You can’t do this, Lovejoy! Metropolitan Gallery of Arts. Bickmore’s the boss…”

  Tye walked him out, returned. Bethune stood outside staring in, kid at a toffee shop window perishing of neglect.

  “Right, team. Prunella, you come with me. Tye, you also, but act like a chauffeur or a private assistant, okay? Jim’s to be brought in once I’ve got going.”

  “We need him?” Tye asked, surprised.

  “Essential. Let’s go.”

  On the way to the street I told Prunella to phone Bickmore and get an immediate appointment; subject: security.

  THE Metropolitan Gallery of Arts claims to be the largest in the western hemisphere. It’s right, but I’m not too sure about the arts bit. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s got tons of genuine art. It’s also got tons of stuff that is hard to classify. I can’t come to grips with a massive cube with a grandiose title. I allow that it’s art, but not my sort. I need this big stone block to tell me something about the bloke whose name’s on the caption, and it doesn’t. That off my chest, I admit that any place with 3.3 million works of art truly is a wonder.

  Bethune waited nervously by the information desk while Prunella scurried on ahead, Tye patiently scooping up her dropped papers. I spoke harshly with Jim. It was difficult moving, because of the Madonna and Child. The terracotta was set in a nook by the stairs at the end of the enormous hall. Blue and white glaze is often a giveaway, as here. It bonged like a cathedral bell into me. I believed the Andrea della Robbia label—it was his uncle Luca who enamelled glazes this colour onto terracotta. I’d seen pictures of it, loved it for years. Who hasn’t? But to see it in the flesh —

  “Lovejoy? Mr Bickmore’s waiting.”

  Prunella scampered alongside, shoes clacking. “Are you all right, Lovejoy? You look —”

  “Never heard of hay fever?” I told the silly cow, then felt sorry when she fumbled in he
r handbag for medicaments—

  The office was grand. Bickmore was a tall, arid man of the old school. He had a knack of being willowy, so he could peer over his bifocals. I’m used to the worm’s eye view. And I’ve been put down by every trick in the book. I smiled, shook his hand, sat as Prunella’s files cascaded around.

  “Prunella’s been with me a long time, Mr Bickmore,” I said. “The only polymath in my corporation.”

  “You’re not American.” He was broad smiles. “What museum is your favourite back home?”

  We chatted awhile about the British Museum, a few others, just enough to prove I was on intimate terms with their layout. I supplied him with a card citing me at Nicko’s office address, and was in no doubt he’d checked before letting us in.

  “It’s a matter of security, Mr Bickmore,” I said pleasantly. “Yours, not mine.”

  His split-level specs sloped disapproval. “You’re not selling, Lovejoy?”

  “I’m not. You are. We bought tickets,” I added, smiling to show no hard feelings.

  “Think of it as a suggested donation, Lovejoy.”

  “Always makes fees seem easier, Mr Bickmore.”

  “Security,” Bickmore said coldly. “If it’s a matter of—”

  “Of the protection money you were going to pay.” I let the silence solidify. I’d warned Prunella not to be shocked. She was scribbling it all down, pen flying.

  Bickmore gave orders to an intercom, rose and closed an intervening door.

  “Protection money?”

  “Prunella? Get Mr Dee in, please. And Mr Bethune.”

  Bickmore watched Tye and the dealer enter.

  “Mr Bethune? Tell Mr Bickmore, please.”

  Fatty spoke, face wooden. “It came to my notice that the Met Gallery was being oppressed by the protection racketeers. I’ve paid for you, and will continue to do so.”

  “For the foreseeable future,” I finished for him irritably. Give me strength. The silly sod had only two lines to learn, and he’d ballsed them up.

  “Why would you do that, Mr Bethune?”

  “Lovejoy persuaded me by his reputation, Mr Bickmore.”