The Great California Game l-14 Read online

  “Got it.”

  Two minutes, and I was trying to took casual at the entrance of Revere, having my photograph checked and rechecked, moving into affluent aromas and ascending a staircase out of Elizabeth and Essex with showbiz music accompanying the hubbub of talk.

  My scheme included washing hands, smiling at the staff and giving them joke time. Easy to make a show of haste without actually hurrying.

  It was one minute to ten when I reached the main gathering. I knew I was going to be the only one not wearing a dinner jacket, and I was right.

  I waited, admiring the chandeliers — modern gunge — and the wealthy woe school of dross decor, the sort to impress. There must have been some three hundred people glitzing away, every shade and shape God made. I stood on the landing, ducking and weaving at one side of the entrance as if anxiously looking for my party.

  “Lost, sir?” a flunkey asked.

  I grinned. “The Game’s my home, man. Alhambra one-four-zero my number.”

  “Alhambra? They’re all up front, by the dais. You just made it. Here come the announcements now.”

  Nicko was tapping the microphone, Gina—not Jennie—gorgeous beside him. I kept still beside the entrance. There were plenty of people, milling, snatching last-minute drinks, plying others. Excitement was in the air. A band was fading with slight rattles, clashes, trying for their enemy silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—friends all!” Nicko’s voice had octaved echoes and an after whine. “Welcome to the nineteenth California Game!”

  People whooped, applauded, crowded closer round the dais. I could see Jennie, Melodie, Epsilon, Monsignor O’Cody, the Commissioner, Denzie and Sophie. No Moira, no Kelly Palumba. Charlie Sarpi was there, but less good-humoured than the rest. And astonishing me by his presence, tanking on booze and—twice his natural hue of grue, Fatty Jim Bethune of antiques fame.

  “We are gathered here—” Nicko paused for the shrill screams of laughter as Monsignor O’Cody waved to acknowledge the applause— “as guests of the Californians, for which our eternal gratitude.”

  Applause, whistles, yells, jokes. Nicko stayed the congratulatory riot. He was a consummate crowd-handler. Should have been a policeman, I thought wrily. My heart was thumping, blood shushing my ears.

  “As last year’s winners, we poverty-stricken New Yorkers will —”

  Pandemonium, ladies stamping the floor and screeching, their men howling affable insults.

  “—Will lead. All sectors have already nominated their players. Observers in the galleries as usual, please. Ladies and gentlemen—the Game’s on! Go go go!”

  The elegant throng crushed the far exits. Two, beside the central dais. I hung back, finding my mark. They were an intense, less than jubilant, cluster of half a dozen who didn’t scrum forward with quite the same rapture. I strolled up, grabbed a wine from a side counter, but only after checking the half-dozen wall bars were free of Manhattan familiars.

  “Don’t you Californians praise your traffic to me ever again!” I exclaimed, grinning at a woman shut into a mass of emerald slab silk. Her jewellery was dazzling, but not antique.

  “Had difficulty?” She wasn’t into the group discussion. I’d seen her eagerness to roam. Women love a party because excitement rules within bounds that they can change any time. “We’re Florida, incidentally. Jane Elsmeer.”

  “Raising the ante?” I chuckled, took a swig. “Tell your friends to throw in the towel. Lovejoy’s the name.”

  “Hi. You’re confident.” Her eyelashes batted. I nearly had to lean into the wind they created.

  “You’re exquisite, but I fear for your bank balance.” We were all drifting down the room as the crush lessened and the crowd thinned through the exits. “We got over twenty times our last year’s gelt.” I smiled into her astonishment. “That do you?” I took her arm. “Jane, honey. I’ll see you don’t starve, okay? Come to Lovejoy. Nicko’s got my number.” I chuckled, squeezed her hand.

  “Twenty?” She glanced over to her people, still debating. “Is that possible?”

  I said soulfully, “With eyes like yours, Jane, I’ll let you hear more any time.”

  Her hand held me back. “No stake’s more than double, is it? I didn’t really listen to the announcement, but —”

  “Difference between two and twenty’s zero, right?” I laughed. Ushers were begging us tardies to move into the Game arena. “Twenty, God’s truth. See you in there, Jane.”

  I strolled down the emptying salon, nodding and saying hi to barmen and generally being a pest. I hoped I’d done enough.

  In a mirror I saw Jane Elsmeer talking to her Florida syndicate. They were shooting looks my way. I did my act with another glass, and was almost last in. But not quite last. One of the Floridans hung back even more, and made sure he was standing immediately behind me at the last second, as the doors closed on the gloaming of the Game.

  AN AQUARIUM. Not really, but like that.

  We, the watching crowd, were rimmed round a glass-enclosed balcony. Down below, a boarded arena with one great central table covered in green baize. It was oddly reminiscent of a snooker championship, except with the audience arranged in sloping crystal. We were in semi-darkness. The arena below was brilliantly lit.

  Our gallery ran the full circumference. It was difficult to see the faces of the crowd though I searched among them for the Manhattan lot. Glad of the gloom, I edged along, casual pace by casual pace. Happier still to see the avid concentration of everybody staring down into the Game arena.

  It was cleverer than I realized at first. The table’s wide surface could be seen from every position in the gallery.

  Below, Nicko was chatting to three blokes, all as important, all as cool. Power emanated from their stances. One was so fat he should have been a joke. Except for his stillness you’d have passed him over without a thought. But creatures aren’t stationary. Nature says move, a sign of life. So we fidget, shuffle, cough in church, look round when the movie hits a dull stretch, try not to yawn when our loved one’s going on and on about her damned row with that parking attendant.

  Except this bloke stood. You could have drawn round him in a gale, he was so static. Which is another way of saying he was a hunter. Fat, okay. Nobody taking much notice of him, okay too. But he was the frightener. The man.

  “Okay everybody!” Nicko’s voice on some concealed intercom made me jump a mile. Everybody else started buzzing with expectation. “Here’s Vermilio!”

  The crowd applauded, which was a bit daft, seeing the arena people couldn’t hear us, though we could hear them. The immense rotund man spoke into a microphone, a surprisingly high voice.

  “The successful stakers are the following teams: Alhambra of New York, automatic entrants as last year’s winner.”

  The crowd fell silent. I saw a couple of birds near me cross their fingers. We’d all gone quiet. Nobody strolling or pairing off now.

  “Renaissance from Chicago. The New Miners from Houston, Texas—is that name for real? Will somebody ask Harry? The Strollers, Philadelphia. The Governors, Washington DC…”

  Ten groups had bought places. The names were greeted with stifled exclamations, cries quickly shushed by others hanging on Vermilio’s every syllable. I was enthralled. Somebody nearby was sobbing, whispering about an appeal, third year lock-out and —

  “… and last the Dawnbusters of Hawaii!”

  Hubbub rose. People congratulated people. Some dissolved in relief. Women squealed more ecstasy than the men. Down in the lit arena Vermilio handed over to a bloke in a plum tuxedo, who began to intone lists of figures for each of the teams Vermilio had announced. Nobody took much notice, though I saw the Florida folk, Jane Elsmeer among them, frozen at one of the panes, storing down with a terrible intensity. I eyed the signed exits, hoping I could make it if it came to a dash.

  “The grand total staked on this year’s Game is the highest ever.” The plum-coated bloke raised his pitch by way of bliss, surely the accountant. “I
t is two point oh nine times last year’s in absolute dollars, ladies and gentlemen!”

  The applause was general and heartfelt. I applauded along, smiling absently. People were muttering with some urgency near Jane Elsmeer. I edged nearer the window, apologizing to a lady whose scarlet sheath dress lacked only a Canterbury Cross in gold—even a Regency copy of the Anglo-Saxon would have done.

  “You get in?” she asked.

  I tore my eyes from her dress. “Oh, I’m an Alhambran,” I said. “I upped our stake twenty-fold. I like your dress, love. Have you thought of combining it with a simpler brooch? I know those Cartiers are fashionable, but a genuine antique —”

  She had to amputate herself away from this guff with a low excuse, whispered something to her man. I caught, “… Alhambra’s the Aquilinas, right?” before she smiled, returned to collect more admiration.

  The talk round the Floridans was causing some attention.

  “Are you particularly interested in old jewellery?” she asked, taking hold with a gamekeeper’s grip.

  “My life’s first and only lovelust,” I told her pleasantly. “Though if I’d met you earlier I’d revise my career moves. Hardly any woman can wear genuine antique gems, love. It’s a delight to find one who has the class.”

  Not true, of course. Antique jewellery draws any woman’s glory. God knows why they buy expensive modern crud, when antique decoratives are cheaper. It always amazes me —

  He saw me. Across the arena, in through the sloping tinted glass opposite, Fatty Jim Bethune saw me. The growing noise, now practically arguments, round the Floridans was attracting attention. It had attracted his.

  I waved, smiling. No good shouting round the balcony, but the arena lighting struck upwards, picking those faces nearest the glass.

  “It’s him,” Jane Elsmeer was saying, closing. She had a woman’s second dearest wish, total attention. People were following.

  “Hello, Jane,” I said. “Do you get to play?”

  “Lovejoy. Upped by twenty. He told me.”

  “At least that,” I said modestly. “Though I can’t claim to be in on the totalizations finalizationwise —”

  And that was that. My feet hardly touched the ground.

  THE room felt like a medieval Inquisition chamber. Some houses, even rooms, have an aura as if evil intentions were ingrained by a malevolent hand. In fact, it was to guard against such forces that ancient builders buried holy relics—and sometimes the architect —in the walls. Still done today, except we make polite social occasions of laying the foundation stone.

  The man Vermilio watched me come. He was standing by a desk. He was the only bloke I’d ever seen not use a desk for extra authority. The plum-tuxedo accountant was beside him. Nicko was there, staring ominously past me.

  Plus a line of goons standing along the panelled walling. Everybody looked at me.

  “Lovejoy, huh?”

  “Yes.” I advanced, smiling, hand outstretched. “I don’t believe I’ve had the —”

  I was stopped by a gesture. “No games, Lovejoy. Talk.”

  “What about?” I waited, asked Nicko anxiously, “Nothing wrong, Nicko, is there? I did everything you said. ”

  “Mr Vermilio wants that you tell him what you told the Elsmeer broad.” The plum-tuxedo man said the words with an accountant’s terrible pedantry. People come, people go, accounts go on for ever.

  “Mrs. Elsmeer? We were talking about the Game. She said she hoped they’d get in, their stake was special. I said ours was twenty times up on last year’s, so we were sure to play.”

  “Twenty.” Vermilio sounded like asking for a gun. “Coats?”

  “Nicko declared a little over twice last year’s stake for his Alhambra team, Vermilio.” Coats might well be an exploited nickname, heady stuff for an accountant. Except maybe he wasn’t just an accountant.

  “I can explain, Vermilio, Coats.” Nicko spread his hands in appeasement. “This guy’s new in. We employed him to see if he could increase the contribution from antiques. He failed.” He smiled, calm personified. “We got Jim Bethune back instead.”

  “But Nicko,” I exclaimed, indignant. “Mr Bethune’s figures were less than a twentieth of —”

  “He’s a blusterer, Vermilio,” Nicko said. “We had to give him a try. But he couldn’t deliver —”

  “I got the concession from Mangold’s auctioneers like I promised, Nicko!” Nicko tried to interrupt, but Vermilio silenced him by a look. “The percentage from Mortdex. God, Nicko. The hack from Louisiana alone is over three times what you had from all the art markets last year! The hacks from Maynooth, Gullenbenkian, bring it at least to eighteen times Bethune’s figures —”

  “He’s insane, Vermilio. It can’t be done.”

  Nicko was green. His eyes did their laser trick directly into me. I didn’t care. I was suddenly immune. Once a threat is diluted, it might as well go all the way.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Vermilio stayed on his feet. Coats called in several tuxedo people from outside. They sat around me in a circle to listen. I was made to talk. The line of goons against the panelling didn’t move. Nicko stood beside Vermilio while I spoke quietly to show I wasn’t a madman.

  “I was working in a bar,” I began. “I fancied a few antique items worn by a customer. Her sister noticed my interest, guessed I was able to recognize genuine antiques by instinct. It’s called being a divvy. Nicko Aquilina came to hear of me, took me on his payroll. I investigated Jim Bethune’s antiques firm in Manhattan. It was a front for fraud —”

  “Fraud’s essential in the California Game, Lovejoy.” Coats, in reprimand. I didn’t respond. Let him dig my trench for me. “All our stakes are hacks.”

  “It’s not fraud,” I said quietly. “It’s fair, legit legal.”

  Coats was irritated, challenged on his own ground.

  “You heard the announcement. Washington stakes an extra half billion this year, hacked from the Irish illegal immigrant levy. Houston, Texas, cuts in the same from the environment lobby. Hawaii brings in a new billion from glass pipes—very promising, now ice-crack’s on the mainland here. Chicago’s brung another half billion from Pentagon hacks —”

  “Dull, dull,” somebody muttered. “What’s new? It shoulda been new.”

  “Like fuckin’ Philly, uh?” somebody in a gaudy polka-dot bow tie shot back. The listeners brightened. I did, with the realization I was relatively small fry among this lot. “Still workin’ the fuckin’ Panama Bahama dirty dollar shunt? Jeech!”

  “Atlanta’s new,” a smooth smiler put in conversationally. “Except a World Soccer Cup stadium hack only works one time. Once the stadium’s been built all over the fuckin’s place, that’s it, though maybe next time —”

  “Lovejoy?” from Vermilio.

  They shut up. I was back in the limelight. “Mine isn’t fraud. It’s legit.” My attempt at snappy speech was pathetic.

  “Your antiques hack is legitimate?” Coats looked for help.

  “Ring Mangold. Ask him if he’s agreed to chip in a percentage of the shifted auctions. Nothing illegal there, by any country’s laws. Check Gullenbenkian. It’s legit. Check that Maynooth’s input’s legal. Ask Verbane if the Mortdex contribution’s legal or not.” I waxed indignant, almost believing me myself. “That’s what I told Nicko, didn’t I, Nicko? And Jennie. Ask Tye Dee. He’ll tell you. He was with me all through when I arranged them. He’s got witnesses. I’ve a list of hotels, bedroom reservations.”

  I was moving about, pleading for antiques now, not for me.

  “The trouble is, people like you come to think of antiques as a commodity. They’re not. They’re people, the best things on earth. Can’t you see that, played right, the antiques world can chip in as much as the rest of an entire stake? Nicko’ll tell you. I worked it all out for him weeks ago —”

  “A legit hack?” Coats almost reeled. “There’s no such thing.” He looked at the Atlanta man, appealed, “The World Cup building program
me—the hack was twelve per cent of total. Massive!”

  “I don’t like the word hack,” I protested. “Or fraud.”

  Vermilio pondered massively. “Check his numbers,” he said. “Nicko? He’s right, you’re wrong, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “It looks like the Alhambra stakers tried it on,” Coats the accountant said. “Risking less’n they hacked. Should they lose, they keep mosta the hack. If they win, then nice for them.”

  Vermilio smiled, like a mountain parting to show worse mountains in the interior. “Compensation,” he announced. “A bet. Nicko’s on the line. He wins, he keeps his ass. He loses…”

  The meeting dissolved in whoops and an exchange of bets. I looked at Nicko, but received nothing. He knew only what I knew. I was pouring sweat too, and the air conditioning was at maximum chill.

  FARO’S said to be the oldest card game ever.

  You pick a card, and chuck away the rest of that pack. Then you take a new pack, and deal into two piles. If the matching card falls into one pile, you win, If in the other, you lose.

  Money, usually. Life, in Nicko’s case.

  The Alhambra crowd assembled in silence away from the exit signs, when finally the galleries were crowded and rumours had settled into a steady hum of hatred. I’d tried to say hi there to Jane Elsmeer, but she’d managed nothing more than a reflex twitch of the lips. I’d even smiled at the scarlet lady to no avail.

  “Play ball!” somebody called. I wish they’d warned us. I came slowly down to the deep russet pile, heart banging enough to shake me.

  “The Alhambra syndicate, first. Nicko Aquilina plays.”

  A girl was at the green, placing decks of cards. People were examining them, all watched by Vermilio and Coats. The scrutineers nodded, talking as if everything was normal.

  “We go first, eh?” I asked a man craning next to me.

  “You an Alhambra?” he asked through the artificial dusk, staring. “Good luck.”

  Why did I need luck, for heaven’s sake? I’d done the decent thing, revealed the truth about my scams, told Vermilio how everything worked when I was asked. No. It was Nicko, Gina, the rest who were for the high jump if Nicko lost. Tough luck. But I’d soon be out of here… Wouldn’t I? Vermilio had said Nicko, not me.