The Great California Game l-14 Read online

  Somebody shoved the door. I leapt a mile, bawled a terrified “Hey, go home, ya bum!” and switched lights on round the place. Silence, or what passes for silence in New York. That is, traffic, sounds of people speed-walking, talk, sirens, motor horns, occasional yells.

  The bar now seemed cold and uninviting, even stark. There’s something unnerving about tidiness, isn’t there? I’m always lost when some woman comes to stay, tidies me into her pattern, washes sheets and gets grub by the clock. I like a little disorder. Manfredi’s, all prepped for the morning, was an uncomfortable oasis.

  Nothing to read, so I switched the telly on for company just as a policeman pounded on the outer glass panel, frightening me to death. His silhouette seemed convincing. I went to let him in.

  “What’s going on here?” he said, eyes everywhere.

  “Evening, constable. I’m still waiting for Mr Manfredi.”

  He gazed around. He was all dark leather pouches. The gun made me swallow a couple of times.

  “New, huh?”

  “Yes, constable. Barman.”

  He walked about for a few moments, eyed me in what can only be called a threatening manner, strolled out without another word. I was relieved to see him go.

  An hour on, I surrendered all hope and got some cold grub from the kitchen fridges. I made more coffee, though by now I was sick of the bloody stuff. The great survival trick is to avoid cinnamon. America must float on a sea of the wretched spice. They put it in rolls, things called muffins which aren’t, in tea bags, in anything edible. Midnight came and went and the telly game shows went on and on. I barricaded the front entrance with chairs and a trough filled with giant greenery, tested the windows, listened horrified to somebody fighting outside, pulled out plugs, generally lessened the electricity bill for the dark hours… except there are no dark hours in New York, that insomniac’s paradise.

  A bench seat would do me. Towards two o’clock I unfastened a window, peering out. Motors still about, pedestrians, somebody falling over, neons blinking multicolour into faces, somebody running down a side street. And the grids steaming as if Hell was somewhere immediately below. I couldn’t get used to the great funnels they stick into the roadway to pipe the gases high into the air. I latched the window, baffled. Grub finished, I washed the crockery in case the kitchen people went mental in the morning, and put the lights out.

  The telly I left on, sound lowered. I dozed fitfully on the bench. Three or four times during the night I roused thinking I heard people trying windows, doors, but there was no one and I slept on.

  CHAPTER TWO

  « ^ »

  SEVEN o’clock, and I was dismantling my barricade when Fredo came. He was there breathing hard, with the same bobby from the previous night. Fredo looked distraught, a piece of sticking plaster on his forehead and his wrists bandaged.

  “Morning, guv. You okay?”

  “That’s him, Fredo,” the policeman said.

  They pushed in. The law stood by while Fredo attacked the cash registers. I got fed up just standing about while they exchanged meaningful glances so I went and brewed more of that terrible liquid. I’d have made myself an egg but I once cracked one at home and there inside was an almost fully formed live chick. Now I wait for birds to do the cooking, or go without. After all, what are women for? They can’t go about doing nothing all blinking day, not even in America.

  The kitchen people were obsessional about their ovens, so I switched the electric ones on and lit the gas under the ones that looked as if they needed it. I heated some water, which I thought a really sensible move. We usually had quite a few people in for breakfast, who sat along the bar. I put the telly on, more unbelievable game shows with everybody clapping all the time.

  “Yes, guv?”

  Fredo was breathing hard, but sitting down now. The bobby was glaring. My heart sank. Morning of my fourth day in America, and it looked like I was for it.

  “The money’s right,“ Fredo accused. His words hurt him.

  I gazed blankly back. “I know. Delia tilled up last night.”

  “Why’s he talk like that?” the cop said.

  “Who minded the store, Lovejoy?”

  I thought that one out. Some idiom? Guarded the restaurant, probably. “Stayed here? Me. I couldn’t work the alarm.”

  The cop looked troubled, but shrugged and left when Fredo gave him a series of long slow nods. That left us two, except Josephus trundled in like a sleepy troll and Lil, Delia and the rest arriving, hallooing that “Hi, there…”

  “In here, Lovejoy.“ Fredo walked with a limp as we made his office. He yelled for coffee through his hatch and got a chorus of cheery rejoinders. God, but morning heartiness is depressing stuff. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

  “Lovejoy. You stayed?”

  Patiently I recounted my feat of having dozed on the bench during the night. He listened, staring.

  “O’Leary was waiting for you to make a break for it.”

  “Break?” Run away? As from a robbery…? My mind cleared. “You mean the constable expected me to steal our money?”

  Fredo corrected, “My money, Lovejoy. You barricaded yourself in. O’Leary heard. He covered the rear exit.”

  I shrugged. So the police waste their time here as well. “Big deal.” I brought out my Americanism proudly.

  “Lovejoy. You stay downtown, right?” I still don’t know what Americans mean by downtown. Ask what they mean, they’ll define it a zillion different ways. They know where theirs is, though, which I suppose is what matters. “And you’re new off the boat, right? The money’s right.” He pondered me.

  “I know.” This was mystifying. And the outer doors were clicking as New York poured in for nosh. “Look, guv. We’ve already said this twice round. Customers. If you want me to say it a third time, just call, eh?”

  Apron, wash hands, and leap into a whirlpool of noisy greetings over the biggest breakfasts you ever could imagine.

  Jonie, a lanky lad who shared Josephus’s rotten taste in rotten music, told me Fredo had suffered an accident on Grand Central Parkway, been unconscious all night. Jonie was a merry soul who dressed like a jogger itching to go, laughed at his own joke: “Business worries got him hospitalized, Lovejoy—and business worries woke him right up!” Everybody thought that hilarious. I grinned, quipped that dough worried everybody, got a chorus of “Right, right!” and pressed on serving coffees, shouting orders and making sure the right sauces, pickles, condiments, were on hand for whatever customers lurked behind those mounds of steaming food we served and served. And served.

  “LOVEJOY?”

  “Evening, Rose.” I was tired by eight. She was in, same stool, had her tunnyfish salad and sliced eggs and coffee and a glass of white wine.

  “Want me to buy you a drink?”

  I thought I’d misheard at first. “Er, thanks, love. But I don’t drink on duty.” Then I contemplated the alternative, the terrible cinnamon tea of America, and relaxed my rule but insisted on paying for it myself. She frowned slightly, heaven knows why. I got some American white wine.

  “Why d’you lot import so much European stuff when yours is better?” I mused between customers, on the principle that compliments stop women frowning. ”Like your American cut glass.”

  “Cut glass?”

  “Late Victorian. It’s miles better than… er, foreign antiques of that vintage.” I’d caught myself in the nick of time, reminded myself that I was a Yank, not an illegal immigrant hopefully passing through.

  “You and antiques. We take in that exhibition?”

  “Give me half a chance, love.”

  “It’s a date. Tomorrow afternoon?” She saw my hesitation, reminded me tomorrow was Sunday. I agreed with ecstasy. Antiques and time to think? “Then you can concentrate on legit antiques, Lovejoy.”

  She smiled, tilting her head towards the lovely woman in the corner who’d captured my attention an hour previously by her accessories. Her purse was a genuine Victorian B
elgian gold-mesh chained handbag—I was practically certain it had a garnet clasp and a gold dance pencil on its chain. It may sound silly, but purses and handbags are still among the easier antiques to find. And they’re still relatively cheap (though by the time this goes to press…) I must have stared rather. The woman, aloof from us rabble, actually used a cigarette case with the old Czarist tricolour enamelled between gold mounts. Surely not Fabergé, here in New York?

  “Lovejoy ma man, Fredo wants you.”

  I served one customer a gallon of bourbon (mounds of freezing ice, poor bloke) and left them to it. Josephus took over. He hated this, it stopped him singing because people along the bar talked and he had to answer. Fredo was in his office, ashen now.

  “Lovejoy. You gotta do a job for me tonight, y’hear?”

  “Tonight?” I was knackered. I’d never thought the prospect of snoring my head off in that grotty little hotel would seem like paradise. But Fredo looked worse than I felt. His eyes were bloodshot and he was slanted in his chair. He was on whisky. “Shouldn’t you be in hospital?”

  “I been in hospital, goddammit.” He groaned at the effort, sweat pouring down his face. “A thousand dollars for nuthin’, send you home worse ’n before, for chrissakes.”

  He was worrying me. “Look, Fredo. Close Manfredi’s just for tonight, eh? Call your doctor—”

  “Lovejoy.” He spoke with drained patience. “You do my outside job tonight, right? Juss do it, ya hear?”

  So I got this job, dead on nine. Wasn’t there some old play once by that title, where somebody finishes up shot? It didn’t turn out like that. Not immediately anyhow.

  WHEN you’re in some new country, city, anywhere, it’s only natural to want to look, get the feel, be amazed at whatever’s there to be amazed at. Tired as I was, I was impatient to see New York, walk and gawp. So far I hadn’t had a chance. I’d been in two shops — I’d bought essentials, razor, street map and that — plus Manfredi’s Eatery, plus my microscopic drossy pit. So Fredo’s command to get in a taxi and go to a written address pleased me: chance to see New York at last! I waved to Rose and explained to Josephus and Jonie and Delia and Lil, left them arguing the toss about who was to do what, and left.

  The taxi man was local. “I’m the only remaining New Yorker behind a wheel,” he told me. “You’re lucky you got me. Now, they’re all African, Hispanos, Europe, you name it. Next month I quit, run my own service on Long Island with my dumb brother-in-law. He’s a schmuck…”

  I listened in bafflement as his family hatreds came out. I’d never heard anyone speak like this before. Was it the custom? To tell a stranger your native city stank from garbage? That you’d kill the mayor if you could? That your President shoulda done law ’cos he’s stoopid? That your son was a bum? By the end of the journey I was stunned. I hadn’t even looked out of the window.

  “How much?” I asked, alighting in this enormous driveway. A large house loomed above up narrow stone steps, an ominous place in spite of the lights and music on the terrace.

  He spoke with disgust, explained, “It’s down to Fredo, my brother-in-law. You believe my luck?” And drove away into the glittering night leaving me standing there being watched by two silent goons.

  One beckoned, examined my bag. I felt my nape hairs rise. Being looked at like that brings out the coward in me every single time. Life’s always on the wobble, and men this tranquil exist solely to tip life out of control.

  “My waiter’s things,” I said, nervous.

  Silence, broken after a couple of centuries by a woman’s irritated voice calling was he here at last and get him in here. I received my bag and was shoved to the rear entrance, where another bulky goon was standing, knowing I was coming and saying nothing. His hands hung down. He made no reply to my nervous “Hi there!”

  “Where the hell have you been?” The same woman, by her voice, light hair and smart in dark blue and ruffles, comely but modern.

  “I only knew a little while ago, ma’am. Mr Manfredi sent me. He’s had a road accident.”

  “In there. You’re on. They’re just going in.”

  The place was beautiful in a modern way, by which I mean clean and spacious and wretchedly dull. As I changed into the jacket—slightly too big, but it had to do—I could hear music and a faint kitchen clatter. The aromas were mouthwatering. I managed to get the shoes on, too tight but no time to argue, and tried combing my hair. It never works. Ready.

  “For chrissakes! What’ve you been doing? This way!”

  Shapely walk, white gleaming corridors of below-stairs, following into a lift—incredible. A lift! In somebody’s house!—then a pit-stop at some unnumbered floor.

  “Manners above all. Y’hear? You done this before?” Her voice was a whispering bandsaw. This was a lady with whom I would never argue.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The place was plush. Other flunkeys were standing about the edges of the concourse. Pale lavender carpet, a grand staircase asking for gowned starlets to make riveting descents, chandeliers and antiques. Paintings on the walls that bonged into my chest and shut my mind off from common sense. A superb Chippendale library table which some lunatic had placed against the wall where its loveliness would be concealed. Sacrilege. Why not in the library, for God’s sake? I found myself tutting in annoyance. The woman furiously told me to pay attention.

  “The butler’s Mr Granger. I’m Jennie, catering. The captain’s Orly, okay?”

  “Mr Granger, Jennie, Orly.” The white-gloved old bloke was straight out of rep theatre.

  “Follow Orly’s instructions. Don’t speak if you can help it. Got it?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She wasn’t a catering manageress. She was a very very frightened catering manageress. Like I was a scared waiter. I wondered if we were all terrified. On the way into the lavishly appointed corridor —too much rococo wallwork for my liking—I realized some flunkeys were more flunkeys than others. Two waiters were nervous as I was; three others similarly attired were not nervous at all. These were stiller than the rest. They didn’t look at the guests. They looked at me, the other waiters, the spaces between.

  “Just in time. That’s Orly. Take position by him.”

  Orly was an agitated smoothie positioned across the spacious entrance hall. Dark slicked hair, very mannered, slim, colourlessly delighted to be in charge. Only twenty guests, I counted, so nothing major.

  Jennie glided away into the servants’ regions. I took stock.

  This was class. The ladies were glamorous, stylish from the certainty that all this richness would still be here in the morning. Looking young was their game. A couple were middle aged but doing brave battle—we’d have trouble selling spuds tonight. The men were monosyllabic, except for a garrulous laugher with silvered waved hair. Politician? The remainder were too economical for my liking. Economy always chills me. They were economical with smiles, words, gestures, though they’d have passed for a first-night crowd anywhere on earth. Dinner jackets tailored, rings a little too flashily genuine. There was tension in the air, with everybody eager to pretend otherwise.

  We got down to it at a gesture from Mr Granger. The grub looked superb, but I was more interested in the antiques around the room. Twenty’s no great number, is it, and I had time to fall in love with a vase on a pedestal—daft, really, sticking a Greek krater where us blundering servants might knock it off. These are worth a fortune. Think early Wedgwood if you’ve never seen one. It almost made me moan with lust. It stood glowing, its twenty-four centuries emitting radiance you can’t buy. (Well, you can, but you know what I mean.) I kept trying to get near its inverted-bell shape to see if its two handles had ever been injured and re-stuck. The red-figure styles, like this, are the sort to go for. It was worth this whole house…

  Orly gestured so I leapt to it, serving vegetables. Italian seemed to be the grub theme, but well done. Somebody expert in the kitchens tonight, thank heavens. Veal done in some posh way, broccoli, some sweet
-aroma pale things I’d never seen before, and boats of other veg, it looked good enough to eat (joke). They left almost everything, ungrateful swine. It broke my heart. I could have wolfed the lot.

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  The hostess was an elegant youngish blonde wearing an enormously long diamond neck chain from the shoulders. She’d indicated that a Spanish bloke wanted some grub, so I hurtled decorously, trying to look, as waiters do, that I’d just been about to get round to him any second. As I served—Royal Doulton, no less—I caught a momentary flash of complicity between two glances. Well, my business was to see this guest got his fair share of mange-tout peas, never mind if he had something going with the hostess.

  “Lovejoy.” Orly’s quiet murmur took me out of the dining room in a lull.

  “Yes?”

  He rounded on me. “Pay attention in there! Can’t you concentrate a single moment?”

  “Eh? I am, I am!” I’d thought I was doing brilliantly.

  “You’re not!” He gave instructions. “No more staring at the walls. What is the matter? You’ll have us cemented in the East River. Don’t you know who these people are?”

  Well, no. “Okay, okay.” I returned to the trenches as Orly clapped his hands imperiously for the waitresses to clear the main course away. I’d met blokes of Orly’s temperament before, of course. His sort gets worked up over nothing.

  The pudding was some impossible concoction — hot outside pastry with a cold fruit middle—which I served smiling to prove I was all attention. I almost dribbled into their dishes, I was so hungry. I even earned a smile from a dark lady in deep blue velvet who wanted some more wine. Her neighbour was a showy bloke who was all teeth. I was sure I’d seen his teeth somewhere on television.

  And that was it, really. The reason I’m going on about this dinner is that it nearly got me killed. As in death.

  IT was afterwards that my problems began. The guests drifted out to a loose chat, drinks and coffee in the larger of the two salons. My first real glimpse into American affluence. It convinced me that America was and is the mightiest nation that ever was. It had quirks, I knew, for wasn’t that a Thomas Cole landscape painting placed beside a genuine Persian seventeenth-century tile wall panel—over a hideous modern lounge suite? Well, no explaining what money will get up to.