The Great California Game l-14 Page 6

  “Andiamo!”

  Tiepin disappeared into the building, moving faster than a major domo should. They stroll, august and serene. This one was… escaping? Definitely at a fast trot. Wrong. Our limo containing Mrs. Aquilina moved off, I thought a little slower than normal. And Tony’s gloved hand reached out of his window and slickly tapped the limo’s roof. Why?

  The big blue motor down the street started up, rolled after her no more than sixty feet.

  Tye was signalling to a taxi — so the strange motor with the two men couldn’t be ours. Therefore they were…

  I barged the commissionaire aside, grabbed his posh metal stand and heaved the damned thing into the road, catching the blue motor. Two other cars swerved. The blue limo tried hard, but dived into a skidding yellow taxi. Tyres squealed, glass fractured and horns parped.

  A passing scruff delightedly went, “Wow-eeee, man!” Drivers began bawling with that immediacy New Yorkers manage so easily. I’d never seen so many gestures. Even pedestrians joined in, exclaiming and gesticulating and thronging about. Tye had vanished. Some friend, I thought bitterly. Just when I wanted him.

  The commissionaire had me in some deathlock. It had taken ten seconds. I was alone, the centre of attention. In one minute flat I was arrested. The druggie bent to peer in at me as I was clouted into the police car. “Wow-eeee!” he cried after us. I wore handcuffs, heavier and more serviceable than ours. The policemen were about two stone overweight, and brutal masters of invective. Genuine police, at last. I’d made it back to normal.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  « ^ »

  WELL, all right America, I still love you. I just have my doubts about your constabulary.

  NEW York’s joke is “You can’t beat our cops”. True, true. (They do the beating, get it?) I was black and blue when I came to rest among other miscreants, but nowhere did it show. Clever. My face and hands were untouched, yet I could hardly stand. They slung me into some pit amid sounds like a clanging echo chamber. Nine of us, mostly wearing jeans, tattered denim and truculent sneers. I avoided eye contact, slid down the wall bone tired. I realized that irritating groaning was me. I stopped, hoping to avoid attention.

  “What yo fo, bo?” somebody asked me, a treble bass voice.

  “Attempted murder,” I said to the single bulb a mile out of reach through a grid that covered our domain. It was hardly a glim, but hurt. I closed my eyes.

  “Who’d ya trah?”

  “International art dealer.” I’d worked it out. By the time this lot learned the truth, I’d be deported, shipped home for my long-awaited trial elsewhere.

  This time I got “Whafo?” and “How?” I was among sociologists. A doze was called for, out of all this. If they’d let me. Gaols and violence are synergistic, not mutual exclusives.

  Somebody was picking my pocket. Talk about inexpert. Where I come from he’d starve. I roused to answer when somebody shook me, asking.

  “Eh? Oh. I’d done him a load of antiques. He didn’t…” Americanisms might save me from being butchered as an Olde Worlde guest on these shores. “… he didn’t make wit de bread, man. I threw a hotel stand at his motor, uh, automobile.

  As improvision it wasn’t bad.

  “Shoulda trahd yo gun, man,” the resonant voice said. I’d never heard such a bass, quiet as that.

  “Boss says no guns. He’ll be…” What was Americanese for infuriated? “… real sore at me for this.”

  A desultory talk began while I tried to rest. They discussed ways of inflicting death and/or destruction without guns. They thought my effort with the stand feeble.

  The clamour from the clink intensified. Like living in a foundry. A couple of people came and went, subjected to the same interrogation I’d undergone. My few dollars went from my back pocket. I dozed fitfully, was hauled out for interrogation twice—reason for blamming a vehicle, causing mayhem in Manhattan — was thumped back to the cell. We’d shrunk to eight, one clearly stoned out of his mind on spiritual substances. He was clobbered to the floor by the treble bass voice. I did my weary slide, now blacker and bluer.

  “Hey, man. Bettune? East 74th?”

  “Eh?”

  The bloke who’d slammed the druggie was crouching by me. He was a giant, even bigger than Josephus.

  “Yo dealer man. Bettune? East 74th?”

  What the hell was he on about? I squinted up at him. “Boss saysno names, man.”

  “Rahd own.” Right on. The great head nodded slowly, big as a bison’s and biblical with it. He waited a moment, staring at me with vast bloodshot eyes, then snapped his fingers and without having to look caught a clutch of dollars somebody instantly passed him. “Yo cash, man.”

  “Thank you.”

  I remember very little else for seven or eight hours after that. Somebody playing a mouth organ, everybody having awkward pees with everybody else grumbling, the druggie waking to the shakes in a screaming fit, that persistent clanging, occasional shouts, vehicles wahwahing outside.

  They called me about six in the morning. Except it was the brightest-suited lawyer I’d ever seen, all smiles and brilliant teeth. A holiday camp of a lawyer if ever I’d seen one. He knew everybody, slapped backs, had a million jokes, a cheroot, expensive tan, and a briefcase chained to his wrist. It held one sheet of paper which he produced with a magician’s flourish. I never did learn what was on it, but it sprang me.

  “See yaz, Lovejowa,” boomed the bass after me.

  “Oh, yes. Bye. And thanks, er…” How did he know me?

  “Busman. West 42nd station, yo in town.” The bass varoomed a laugh octaves down.

  “Name of Gordino,” the lawyer told me, shaking my hand. I blinked at the light while he signed at a desk. I’d never seen so many police in such a hurry. Like a commuter rush, barging past and yelling things like “Yo!” They had more hardware on their belts than most tinkers’ carts. “This way, Lovejoy.”

  “Er, thank you, Mr Gordino. It’s most kind of you to —”

  “That’s all, Lovejoy.” He muttered the instruction from the side of his mouth, impressing me. I knew I’d be trying to do it in front of the mirror as soon as I made it back to the hotel.

  As we left the cop shop he made a regal progress, acknowledging everybody, any rank and role. “Hey, Al! How ya goin’?” and “Tom? Okay Thursday, get beaten by a slicker handicap?” Our departure was a crazy crosstalk act, him the cheerleader, pally police an amiable gauntlet.

  We made the car park and he changed into a bitter unsmiling man.

  “You bastard,” he said, lips tight, sinking into a saloon. Tye Dee was sitting beside the driver. It was Tony the roof-tapper. He said nothing, so neither did I. Gordino cursed me. “You double mother of a bastard. Never try that on me again, ya hear?”

  “Right, sir,” I said anxiously.

  “Why the frigging fuck you not lay out the wire?” he said through his slit. If he loved the police, he hated me for not laying out his wire. I nodded blankly. “It took me nine—repeat nine—long hours to find you.”

  “I’m sorry. I promise.” But promise what? So far, nobody in America had understood me. And I was lagging in the comprehension stakes by a mile.

  Gordino mopped his face with a crimson handkerchief. He was trembling, here in broad daylight. I looked out, trying to see where we were going, but Tye’s eyes caught me in the rear mirror and I sank -down so as not to see.

  “Double bastard,” the lawyer muttered a couple of times.

  We drove out of Manhattan, some tunnel to somewhere. Wherever it was was sure to be beautiful, leafy, affluent, and baffling as the rest of America. I started scratching, having caught lice from the gaol. I wondered about Busman, Bettune, 74th Street, having my money returned by robbers for nothing. And, of course, why I was a swine to Gordino on account of some wire. And why Tye Dee looked scared for his skin. I was scared for mine, of course, but that was normal.

  It was about eight o’clock, the morning rush hour. I drew breath to suggest that
I’d best be making tracks for Fredo’s bar, but stayed silent.

  IT was more than a yacht. It was a cruiser, white as a goose. Twin masts and striped awnings. They didn’t have vessels like this in the Blackwater at home. This was a cocktails-and-caviar boat, not a coastal slogger ready for gales such as I was used to. It was the only vessel at the small pier.

  The crew weren’t uniformed so much as standardized, which was much less reassuring. Only half a dozen of them, but fit and wary. One just stood there in the stern, scanning the distant wooded riverbank and talking quietly into his chest whenever another boat glided by.

  I went up the gangplank after Gordino. He was into his windmill mode, the big hello and cheroot, pretending to throw up over the side when the boat rocked slightly in a wash.

  “Follow on,” Tye Dee said. He was uncomfortably close behind me.

  It was a lovely morning, the sun already up and a few boats plying the water. Cars winked windscreens on tiny roads parallel to shore. A few gulls planed over. Several other yachts were moored further downriver. It felt good to be alive. God, but yes it did. I warmed again to America, not solely because there was Gina Aquilina in a white towelling dressing gown observing our arrival from under an awning on the top deck.

  Nicko cooled my pleasure at this nautical scene. His stare was somewhere to the northwest, his voice sibilant. Jennie wasn’t there. Orly was, seething at me as usual.

  “Lovejoy’s done well,” Nicko said, “He gets bonused.”

  Bonus a verb too? I grinned, but my face wouldn’t play, stood there like a lemon.

  “Tye, man.” Nicko heaved a moderate sigh. “About you.”

  “Let Lovejoy tell it, Nicko,” Mrs. Aquilina begged. Funny sort of begging, though. Quiet, yet the words piercing everybody’s reluctance. I spoke up, worried about the outcome but avoiding scratching at the lice. Fleas get poems written in their honour. Lice are just misery.

  “Why didn’t you warn Tye, Lovejoy?” she asked.

  “About the men in the motor? I… I didn’t know if I was wrong.” I’d explained about the tiepin man, his sudden moustache and quick change, his running exit, the signal to the two men. Except I’d tried, and Tye had almost flattened me. I left that bit out.

  “Why didn’t you warn Gina?” Nicko asked.

  This one was more difficult. A simple lie to save Tye’s bacon was fair, but dare I try the same for Mrs. Aquilina? The space between husbands and wives is a minefield.

  “I… I was too slow getting into the motor car, Nicko.”

  “He looked like a hobo, Nicko,” his wife said.

  “I’d no other clothes, you stupid cow!” I yelled, narked. Then swallowed myself into docility again. “Sorry, missus.”

  “Good.” Nicko nodded to the distant shore. “I like that. He lies good.” He thought, glanced at the shore where Tony waited by the limo having a smoke. He wasn’t relaxed, kept looking up at the yacht. “Berto?”

  Gordino said, “Lovejoy told nothing down the precinct. But he shoulda got on the wire, saved me a ton a trouble.”

  “That’s okay,” Nicko forgave. “I like that, He telled nothing.” He stared at Orly. “He’s filthy. Clean him up, bring him for prima collazione.”

  Breakfast! Grub on the way! And bonused! I was in some sort of favour, an experience so rare I’d been slow to realize it.

  “Who’s the broad?” he asked the river.

  “Rose Hawkins, Nicko,” Tye replied for me. “Bookseller. She’s hot for Lovejoy. Has some book job for him is all.”

  “Excuse me, er, Nicko,” I ducked slightly as his head rotated. It turned like a gun’s swivel mount in a turret, stopped short of my face, thank God.

  Silence, except for seagull sounds by the galley portholes.

  “Er, can I ask Mr Gordino to do something? I’d pay—well, owe him, if it’s okay by you.” Mrs. Aquilina had a sudden alert interest, a stoat about to start its rabbit-transfixing dance. “There’s a bloke —guy — in the police station. Can you try to help him? Busman. He was kindly.”

  Nicko thought, said okay. Gordino asked, “Chico? Spic? Nigruh? Wasp?”

  “I don’t know his surname. He’s just called Busman.”

  Mrs. Aquilina stifled a giggle. Nicko’s gaze reached me this time, like a puzzled Last Judgement. He decided I was thick. “Orly. See about Tony.”

  Orly nodded, left us for a moment. We all waited. The rest seemed content. I kept clearing my throat, shuffling, whistled a bit until I realized it made me feel more ridiculous.

  Two crewmen went down to Tony. He stood on his fag end, almost came to attention as they approached.

  “Nicko,” he called, in his voice an ugly quavering. “Can I speak wit you?”

  Nobody moved or answered.

  “Er, I think Tony’s calling, Nicko…” I petered out.

  The crewmen shoved Tony inside the motor. One sat behind him as the other drove the car up the slope and away. Sacked? Perhaps for lacking vigilance? On the boat life instantly resumed.

  “Right,” Nicko said. “Let’s go.”

  “To help Busman? There’s no need for us all,” I thanked him. “Just Mr Gordino, if he could…”

  Nicko departed, shaking his head. The lawyer sprinted ashore after darting me a malevolent glance. The crew sprang into action. Orly left at a peremptory signal from Gina. There are some people who, whatever they do, look as if they’re always sweeping up after the boss. Orly was one. Mind you, Gina would be lovely to associate with in any circumstances—or so I thought, then.

  “Don’t go, Lovejoy.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Aquilina?”

  Tye Dee beckoned a crewman, who eyed my measures doubtfully. They had gone below through heavily varnished doors.

  Gina was so desirable my throat had practically closed. I stood, mesmerized and in difficulties.

  “I’m grateful. You saved my life. You know you could have gotten yourself shot?”

  “Well.” I struggled with my airway.

  She gazed out at the river. Sunlight consorts with a woman, doesn’t it? I looked. She turned to gaze at me.

  “There’s only one thing makes a man take a stupid risk like that, Lovejoy. I just want you to know I understand. But it’s out of the question. However, you deserve some sort of reward. You can have your pick of the staff. As long as you are discreet about it, and the girl goes along.”

  I pondered. What the hell was she saying? That I was lovelorn? That I’d acted from adoration, or what? I got breath and was about to explain that she’d got it wrong. I mean, don’t misunderstand me. She was blindingly beautiful, and knew it. And I’d have given anything just to, well. But when a living creature’s in mortal danger, I mean any bloke in his right mind would do the same thing without weighing the pros and cons, right? I’ve rushed across motorway traffic to save a bewildered hedgehog before now. It’s what people do. Instinct or something.

  “Well, Gina…” Then I thought. My one brain cell shrieked to beware.

  It’s this business of women and love. It lies at the root of all of life. Everybody loves a lover, true. But does every woman love a lover equally? Not on your life she doesn’t. Oh, they adore Abelard, crazy for Heloise. They revere Romeo’s lust for Juliet, John Whatsisname for Lorna Doone. And here was the lady who had everything — power, wealth, beauty, youth — saying openly that she approved of me, your one-off destitute scruff, solely because she believed that I’d fallen for her. Of course, she was right. But it was true for her maid Blanche, for Rose Hawkins, her imperious sister Moira. For Della, Lil at Fredo’s bar, for… No. The great mistake loomed. Hell hath no fury as a woman substituted.

  “No, thank you.”

  “What?” She leant on the ship’s rail, taking stock.

  “No, thank you.” I tried to look abashed, embarrassed, brave but melancholic. A bidden blush never comes, does it? It’s only when I try to seem supercool that I go red. “I know you’re out of my reach, Gina. I’ll not settle for less.”

  �
�Of all the…” Her anger faded. She turned away. “Get below and clean up. You look like a derelict.”

  I went inside to find Tye, more cheerful than I’d been. I’d risen in Gina’s esteem. And my determination to stay pure needn’t last more than a few minutes. There were several maids laying for a party on the upper deck arena. As long as Gina didn’t find out. She’d not want me to lower my standards.

  The engines started and nautical sequences began. We were going on voyage.

  “CHICO, Spic, Nigruh, mean colour, Lovejoy.” Tye Dee was swilling a whisky while I showered. (Dear USA: need your showers be so forceful they slam you against the tiles?)

  Colour? How could Busman’s colour help? There couldn’t be more than one with that nickname. I soaped industriously with a loofah. Lice are simple to shed. Damage the fragile little things and they’ve had it.

  “Another thing, Lovejoy. Orly and Mrs. Aquilina are… friends. So’s Jennie and Nicko. Okay?”

  That halted my scrubbing for a second. I resumed, slower. “Thanks, Tye.”

  “And ya get took, ya phone Gordino. Okay?”

  God, but whisky stinks foul in the early morning. Its aroma almost made me gag. I’d bagged my clothes in plastic, and tied the neck. A crewman’s gear was laid out on the bunk. My second job, at last? Dressed, I went and lost my way a dozen times.

  Breakfast was gigantic even by American standards. Gina finally came, had an ounce of orange juice and three grapes. Orly had a couple of pancakes. Nicko had a croissant and coffee. I had hash browns — thick fried mash — and everything within reach. Three times I narrowly escaped having syrup poured over it all.

  During the gargantuan nosh I tried asking where we were going. The Hudson? No, for we were amid several islands. The Statue of Liberty, and us turning away northwards, bridges ahead and a crowded mass of habitations to the right.

  Gina was being amused. “How marvellous to see you eat, Lovejoy! The galley will be delighted.”

  Well, there was no telling where my next meal would come from. And you can’t muck hunger about, or any other appetite for that matter.

  “I’m worried about Mr Manfredi, er, Gina. He’ll be in the middle of his morning rush.”