The Very Last Gambado Read online

  “Really?” I was thoroughly shocked. “That’ll teach me not to check. Brad says—”

  “That you traded my mother’s car for it. Bullets, percussion caps, black powder.”

  “He did? It’s not worth that. Your mother’s motor’s worth—” She moved toward me. Independent observers might not have noticed any motion, but I did. It consisted of a slow inhalation, a pursing of the lips, a gentle lift and resettling. For Lydia it took the exertion of a pole vault. Then, a miracle, she actually reached and touched my hand. A robin’s breath.

  “My antipathy toward Ray Meese, Lorane, and the others is not what makes me fear for your safety, Lovejoy. It is your lack of perspicacity.”

  "What have you done with the handarm?” I spoke carelessly. If the silly cow’d moved it I’d—

  "It’s here.” She brought it out after a lengthy handbag rummage. “I take it you’ll need it tomorrow.” The black powder was still bagged up in plastic. And the lead spheres. And caps.

  “Well, I might take it.” Offhand.

  She looked edible, succulent. “Would you rather I went to the museum with you, Lovejoy?”

  The question hung, implying was it really worthwhile driving off home when we needed an early start.

  “Maybe, Lyd. I’ll take the gun.” Odd juxtaposition of words, but she somehow got the point and nodded.

  She rose, tidied away a couple of pots so they’d be untraceable once I was alone, and said, “Oh, Lovejoy. The strangest thing.” “Yes?”

  “Those antiques you mentioned. The ones the camera crew and assistant people keep bringing to show you.”

  "What about them?”

  “They’re mostly from one job lot, and all from one auction. In Maldon, at Baskerville’s. The week before the St. Edmundsbury exhibition began.” She did her face, mouth, examined her eyes, put away her lipstick. “Isn’t that a curious coincidence?”

  "Extraordinary.” That’s why she’d come, searched the cottage for weaponry. To see if I felt the same unease.

  "Isn’t it, Lovejoy?” She sat, closer. My breathing went odd. "As if they bought the antiques so you wouldn’t become bored. A carrot, to keep you there.”

  "Me being so indispensable, you mean.”

  "But we both know you are not indispensable,” she said calmly. “You are probably the one person who is superfluous by any criterion, Lovejoy.”

  “Here. Nark it.” You can only take so much.

  "It’s true, Lovejoy. You are dispensable to the film company, the film, the British Museum.” She rose and stood, lovely in her smart suit. “You’re in dispensable, however, to me.”

  I thought I’d misheard. “Eh?”

  She faced me sternly. “We must accept that affinities do occur between people, Lovejoy. Strange, for we’re really rather different. It implies obligations.”

  “It does?” I was still bog-eyed over that really rather different. "Indeed.” She gathered her things, coat across her shoulders. "After tomorrow, no later, we must discuss the implications.” "Very well, Lyd.” The filming was tomorrow.

  "Lydia, please.” She took a slow pace, solemnly put her mouth on mine, very inexpert. Our eyes stared into each other’s, both sets astonished. She stepped away, breathless. "This is all very well, Lovejoy. But I have a great deal to do.”

  “Er, tell Tinker no need to hunt that list of antiques down.”

  I shrugged when she turned and gave me a look: So we both suspected the same thing, Lovejoy. "And get Hymie’sgold Russian set by breakfast time. Come to the studio, props division.”

  “Very well, Lovejoy.” I went with her to her car. She wound the window down, her face serious and half-frightened in the diffused headlamps’ glim. It was dark and spattering rain. "Lovejoy. May I ask your first name, please?”

  Bloody nerve. “Mind your own business.”

  "Mine’s Lydia,” she said, nearly practically almost smiling as she pulled away. A Lydia joke. Things were more desperate than I’d thought. I watched her lights recede up the lane, then went inside. They don’t leave you alone even when tomorrow’s your hanging.

  D

  AWN. The British Museum wore its bank holiday face, in a faint gold on gray. Me and Three Wheel Archie sat in Lydia’s motor watching the world appear, him perched on a stack of cushions.

  “Like warpaint, them great pillars.” He too had noticed the resemblance. “Great rectangular eyes.”

  “No people.” A newspaper blew idly along the street, occasionally pausing at parking meters like a peeing dog.

  “You’re always on about people, Lovejoy. What difference’d people make?”

  “Witnesses. Hiding places. Easier all round.”

  “You’re barmy.” He has one of these merry medieval visages, humor everywhere. “Three hours you’ve been moaning, no people, why’s it a bank holiday. Look on the bright side, Lovejoy.” “I asked about the smoke cans,” I gave back indignantly. Cheery little sods nark me.

  “Eleven times. Yes, Lovejoy, I did sneak into the studio and

  put your four tins in the pantechnicon. You drove me there at two A.M. Remember?”

  “With the studio's smoke guns?”

  "Shut up, Lovejoy. You’re paranoid. Is there no way of getting a bite?”

  “Nothing open.” The world closes on bank holidays. Nobody works. The tube dozes. An occasional London bus drifts past for the sake of appearances. We were the only motor in the street. A couple of tramps were still asleep on Russell Square’s park benches. One taxi had passed us in two hours.

  “We going to starve all day, then? Thought you don’t start filming till five.”

  “We don’t.”

  “So why’re we here before cockshout? Seems daft to me.” “Because I’m—” I’d almost said frightened, stopped myself in time. Archie was looking at my knuckles, white on the wheel. “Early,” I finished lamely. It sounded pathetic.

  "Tell you what,” he said after a minute. “Let’s see if anything’s open by the tube station, eh? Have some grub, hot cuppa.”

  “Good idea.” Shamefaced, I locked up and we walked toward Bedford Square. “Got any money?”

  "Less than twenty wagons, mate, it’s them television pillocks.” Everybody in earshot laughed at the Cockney electrician’s humor. I’d expressed astonishment at the cavalcade. It looked an arriving army. Vans, huge closed pantechnicons, lorries with trailers, caravans, lined the road as far as Southampton Row. “Over forty, it’s us proper movies.”

  “What’s twenty to forty, then?”

  “A frigging traffic jam.”

  I laughed along, synthetic. The museum forecourt was crammed with motors, strewn with cables. Men were pushing and hauling equipment. I’d already seen three of the small forklifters file, whining on their heavy batteries, down the slope into the basement from the north entrance. We could have fought a war if we’d had a weapon or two. Speaking of which, here came Lydia, minus Three Wheel Archie.

  "Lovejoy! Those guards refused me entry when I said I was your apprentice!’’

  "My name changes continents, love,” I said drily. Gabriella was conversing with the uniformed gatemen. She flashed me a winning smile. "Bring it?”

  “Yes, Lovejoy. And I had to hire another car, because—” “Thanks, Lyd. I’ll remember your self-sacrifice.”

  “Yes, well. And it’s Lydia.”

  Gratitude won every time. I was getting the hang of Lydia. Three Wheel Archie was guarding a small saloon across in Museum Street by the tavern. I could just see him between wagons. “Love, have two security guards carry it in, please. It’s to lend authenticity to this shack’s heap of crud.” That’ll be the day. "Gabriella over there’ll lend you a couple of husky lifters.”

  "Very well, Lovejoy. Shall I be permitted to watch?” "Doubt it, love.” I added as she turned, tutting. "And tell Gabriella her men must stay beside that gold set until it’s all over, eh? And tell them to keep their nasty digits to themselves. I don’t want any gold filed off while I’m no
t looking.” I deliberately spoke loudly to nark the security folk, and was rewarded by a sharp annoyed lift of a uniformed girl’s head.

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” Lydia agreed gravely, trotting towards Gabriella at the gateway.

  "Indeed, Lyd, indeed.”

  "Lydia” drifted gently back. Nothing for it now. I just hoped I’d kept Lydia talking long enough for Three Wheel Archie to do the necessary with the little package I’d slipped him. He’d had hours by now, for God’s sake. A full minute at least.

  "Lovejoy,” somebody called. The world converged on the main entrance, Max loping, Vance shuffling, Hank striding. "Coming, coming.”

  No escape now. Doom is depression. I walked at a creep toward the milling crowd. I’d done what I could. Cattle on their last roundup must feel this why-me degradation. It’s a horrible sense of void, where malevolence rules and even legitimate explanations are impotent.

  “Hello, Lovejoy,” various cheery loons cried as I joined them. "Great day, eh? One-take finish!”

  “Great,” I said. “Truly, truly.”

  “See where they’ve put the dressing trailers?” Lofty asked. “And the honey wagons are out fucking side! I’ve heard of security, but this is crazy.” Honey vans are mobile latrines.

  Two hours later nothing had happened. My rapid heartbeat had slowed to a nod.

  “We’ll be lucky getting home before morning,” Nick gloated. “Overtime’s money.”

  He kept nipping out for a smoke while we stood about or sat on the floor of the main entrance hall. I noticed he was closely searched every time. A dozen more plans went out of the window.

  There must have been sixty, seventy of us, but even waiting didn’t go smoothly. Pal the firearms expert had three men, like the rest wearing identity tags with full-face photos. He wanted to take his toy guns in through a separate entrance and was sternly overruled. Stef Honor had a tantrum over his accommodation—a small canvas shelter pushed like a wheelbarrow on rubber wheels. Saffron had a prolonged weep over something. Vance oscillated between gloom and hypermania, constantly doing surreptitious magic with a tiny box and bulky cigarette papers. Major Bracegirdle was everywhere with his ha, pause, ha, laugh.The thought crossed my mind of passing him a secret message begging for protection, but the nerk would probably have read it aloud as a witty joke.

  A wide flight of stone steps ascends left from this main hall. Three of Gabriella’s museum heavies stood impassively abreast on the tenth step, arms folded. They weren’t to be blown away by a chance draught. Idling among the mob, listening to technical talk of cameras, electronics, money—always money—and other people’s disastrous movies, I sussed the hall out. Two shops to the left, and ladies’ loos. Straight ahead, the heavy pale wooden doors leading to the famous reading room with its labyrinthine subterranean bookstacks. Going right, a closed cloakroom, men’s loos, a lift, some telephones. Then, under the clock, vast double doors opening directly into the Grenville Gallery of illuminated manuscripts. All loos were shut, barred. Carry on right and you’re in the historical document saloon with its bookcase walls and high railed gallery.

  It was in there that it would all happen. Into the broad saloon me, Lofty, and Nick would follow Lancelot Lake in our mad criminal dash, after so-say harvesting the Armenian antiques into our black plastic bags. Cameras would be on the red-eyed go, silently cooking our mayhem into a permanent record to enthrall the paying millions. Theory, of course.

  As the hours passed my heartbeat took up a steady dryish sound thudding its way into the early afternoon and maintaining its exhausting I’m-ready-when-you-are shoves.

  We left, were searched, had an astonishingly sumptuous hot nosh standing beside the food wagons in the street, surged back again to be searched and start waiting some more. A tense girl called Laurie with a clipboard and two querulous assistants came to brief us.

  “You all here?” She ticked us off on her list. “Now, before we can go through the Grenville Gallery to the shooting lot, you’ll need these.” Her team tied tight plastic bands round our wrists, one each. Our photos, identity card, and a nasty little cold metal button. I glanced round, caught Gabriella’s innocent gaze, and nodded wryly. We were bugged. Upstairs, security control would follow us on their horrible greeny screens. Footer said the security men tone the color down for clarity. Another useless fact.

  "Now! An Italian run, okay?”

  "A quick run-through, Lovejoy,” Lofty translated.

  As cameras and cables were trolleyed past and assistants barged through to be admitted to the long gallery Laurie and her two began to instruct us. "Lancelot and you three are skulking in the Russo-Armenian exhibition, right?” She lowered her voice, skulked about. "You’ve stolen the riches, right? The goodies are in your bags, right?” Pause. "Right, Lovejoy?"

  “Eh?” Three Wheel Archie was between two guards, in the search barrier, being tabbed, labeled, bugged. Two others were pushing a museum trolley on which Hymie’s lovely gold samovar set shone resplendent. "Oh, right, Laurie.”

  "Pay attention, please. This is a one-shot scene. No going back, no reruns, no retakes, okay?”

  “Right, right,” everybody said.

  Except me, who said, “Why not?”

  Laurie went thin-lipped. “Ray says so. It’s to have spontaneity, vivacity, everything.”

  “Right, right,” chorused Lofty, Nick, our four helpers, the world. Except me.

  “Didn't the phony balloon scenes on the university tower have those, then?”

  “Sure they did, sure,” the unbiased world said.

  “We repeated those twenty times an hour,” I said, unrepentant. I mean, it was me going in where Pal’s toy guns were blazing in the smoke. "Why can’t we repeat today’s?”

  “Artistic need, Lovejoy.” Laurie was annoyed. Those were edicts from the almighty, and not for antique dealers like me to question. “The need’s imperative. Vital. Total. Truly truly.”

  "Right, right,” from everybody e.m.

  Because what’s on the film is the truth. Wasn’t that their whole and total all-encompassing creed? We’d lived weeks of nonballoon balloons doing nonflying flights. We’d done nonascending ascents, no-death massacres, fired nonfiring guns. Unassaulted assaults on nonhotels. The whole movie was a nontheft of nonvaluables in a cardboard cut-out mock-up room in Wembley. And whenever I’d asked why such amazing phoniness, they’d all trotted out the same old answer: It's only real on the screen.

  And, suddenly, I had it.

  Right there in my jumbled mind I had it. Countess Natalia’s faded fortunes, poor old Sam’s death, greedy Parson Brown’s disappearance, my sudden unhealthy immunity from Seg’s batterings, the confidential antiques consultations every time I showed up at the studios, my unexplained job as an extra, why this movie would gain every award under the sun and gross a trillion on release. And why me.

  “Right, right,” I said, looking about in the press for him, now I knew. No, nobody who shouldn’t be there. He couldn’t be delayed by the traffic, for sure. Apart from studio convoys we’d hardly seen a car all day, London lifeless this bank holiday. But he’d come.

  "Good. Now,” Laurie surged on brightly while museum security men pushed and unscrewed and peered at a tiny studio rubber- wheeled forklifter. Footer was right. They always do this to everything—except to priceless antiques, like my gold samovar. "Lancelot first, okay?” Laurie pointed with her pen. This indicated that we hoodlums should charge from the exhibition room. “Guns ready, dragging your sacks, you run—that’s run—out from the desecrated exhibition, okay, into the open manuscript saloon. Smoke, smoke, gloom, lights, shadows, cockalorums spreading shadows, desperate stuff, okay?”

  "Cockalorums,” Lofty explained low-voiced. “Big square light reflectors up on poles.”

  “Lancelot, Nick, Lofty, run forward-left. Stef and Saffron are on the balcony above. They fire. You three fire back. Lofty gets hit, goes down—”

  "Er,” I said. "Sorry?”

  "—F
iring up, Nick, with Lancelot yelling, ‘Come on, men,' firing, firing. Stef flings himself in front of Saffron, who’s falling. Bravely he keeps firing—stop those crooks, goddammit! Really real, right?”

  "Er, Laurie—”

  "You, Lovejoy, dash left and—"

  “Er, sorry, love. Why don’t I follow the—?”

  “I’m telling you.” She spoke exasperatedly. The rest laughed, shaking heads at me. “You hear shots, see the rope ladder Stef and Saffron have climbed to reach the balcony. Right? With your sack you rush—”

  "Isn’t that long case in the way?” These manuscript display cases are immovable and stand chest high. “Hit one of those running you won’t get up for a week.”

  “No, Lovejoy.” All patience. “Make a ninety degree angle left and you’ll avoid it, okay?”

  “Anyway, you’ll still see a bit,” Nick said. “How fast, Laurie?” “Fast as shit,” she replied elegantly.

  "Do I climb the rope ladder?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  "No. Stef shoots you and Nick.”

  “Nick right over there, and me a mile to the left?”

  "You’ve got it, Lovejoy.” She turned a palm down. “Just as you reach that big case you're got in the chest. You make a grab, hold on, groan, look up. You’re shot again. You shoot back, bam bam! Just as you’ve rehearsed it.”

  “Then?”

  “Then you die. Crump. Just like you practiced.”

  “What happens to Lancelot?”

  “He makes to shoot Stef when Saffron raises herself, wounded, shoots Lancelot, saves her lover, saves the priceless Armenian cultural heritage. It’s sweet. Truly.”

  “Good, eh?” Lofty was chuckling. “We call it an Eddie G. finish. You know Edward G. Robinson? On the steps of that church, gunned down with visions and a heavenly choir.”

  Nick grinned. "I knew an old stunter once, worked on that Yankee stunt feature. Reynolds did the lead. And—”

  Laurie cut them short. “We’ll have a few run-throughs, Lovejoy. You’ll be able to do it blindfold.”

  “Question of timing,” Nick said.

  “Right, everybody?” Laurie called. “We’ll start the walkthrough.” '