The Very Last Gambado Page 8

  Ledger quelled Burton with a bent eye. “Since which?” “We drove straight to tea at Condor Hall with Natalia, Countess Rumiantzeff.”

  That stymied him. "Did you indeed?”

  “Yes, we did indeed.” Lydia tapped my arm. “Let us leave, Lovejoy.”

  “Just a minute,” Ledger said. “Your fingerprints are all over the car that crushed Sam Shrouder to death—”

  “So? I get lifts in strange cars ten times a day, Ledger.” “You’ve got to explain—”

  “No, Mr. Ledger.” Lydia was white, Joan of Arc at the stake and just as sure of herself. “You are usurping authority.”

  Meekly I gunned the Ruby’s asthmatic cylinders and moved off, shrugging apologetically to show all this was none of my doing. Ledger walked a pace or two alongside, still working out what the hell she meant. Lydia’s meanings have strained stronger cortices than his.

  “Shrouder’s catalog’s being dusted for your dabs, Lovejoy. I warn you. If it’s positive, you’re for it.”

  The bobby also trotted, concentrating. “Here, Lovejoy. How d’you spell . . . ?”

  I did a frisky sixteen mph in forty seconds. Jaguar, Inc., look to your laurels. Lydia was still being defiant and breathless, which gave me a few minutes. Sam Shrouder dead? Catalog? I can never afford the damned things. Once, they used to give you them free at museums and exhibitions, whereas nowadays . . . Exhibition. Ledger said he’d warned me. The Russian antiques exhibition at St. Edmundsbury? But I’d obeyed, steered clear, hadn’t I?

  The obvious link was Countess Thingy at Condor Hall, Russian as ever was. Or maybe the lustrous Agafia? But where’s the connection with Sam Shrouder, now R.I.P.?

  I said something or other, but I’d already decided to ask Suki Logan new questions about Sam, mostly while Parson Brown was absent. I’m not scared of Ben Clayton, honest. And I honesdy wasn’t trying to bolster my alibi with Ledger. Just curiosity.

  As we neared civilization and horrible countryside gave way

  to lovely paving and dwellings, I wondered if I could get hold of a catalog of that Russian antiques exhibition. Not by going there myself of course—Ben Clayton would make Seg break my legs, and Ledger’d jail me. The Plod can withdraw your license to drive. Ben Clayton can withdraw your license to breathe. I glanced at Lydia, thinking. If she took the risk instead of me, I’d stay safe, right? Anyway, she wasn’t indispensable to Lovejoy Antiques, Inc. I was. Therefore it was only right for her to risk everybody’s brutality, instead of me. Logic’s wonderful stuff.

  With a fond smile, I said, “Lydia, doowerlink. I want you to run a little errand . .

 

  mm

  A

  film studio’s the most lunatic place on earth. For a start, it’s not a studio. And nobody seems to be filming. There are also millions of workers not working, writers not writing, directors not directing, producers doing nothing but hold their heads, cameras not photographing. No other place can compare. And everybody predicts disaster.

  Now, I didn’t know any of this until much, much later. I might have been more perceptive, except that Lydia had ditched me at Colchester station after a blazing row. I'd been handed the money to go by train.

  “I see that you are too inattentive to tolerate my company, Lovejoy!” She’d exploded this megaton just when I was thinking something really complicated. I found myself in the station carpark, a couple of notes thrust into my fist.

  “What’s up, love?” I was astonished.

  “Possibly you are thinking over your forthcoming encounter with Lorane, Lovejoy! Or your evening tete-a-tete with Laila! Very well! Go alone! And may your experience be as pleasurable as your anticipation!”

  "But—”

  “I shall not meet you from the train, Lovejoy ..and so on. She went, head high and shoulders set. Indomitable.

  So. Alone at the studios, other side of London, no protection. And a doubting security nerk letting me in only when Lorane came to collect me.

  “Much good you’ll do us, Lovejoy,” she said, striding on in her thigh boots. “Since you’re here, have a word with Max, Vance, and see Stef in action.”

  "Who?”

  "Jesus. Are you always this dumb? Stef Honor.”

  "What’s he do?”

  “Jesus H. Christopher. You are always this thick! He’s like the fucking star of this great epic movie. Star. You know star?”

  We hopped among blokes carrying wooden sections, bits of furniture, crossed a gang laying some sort of narrow railway line. People were hammering, shouting. A gathering of sobersides dined inelegantly on the hoof round a couple of huge pantechnicons, which were doing fryups. I instantly grew hungry but Lorane strode us on past. A bloke whistled after her. Disdainfully she raised two fingers, a reflex.

  “Star,” I echoed obediently.

  “The love interest’s provided by Saffron Kay. She’s a bitch. Acts only in moments when she’s temporarily not on heat. Incidentally, keep your prick to yourself. She costs us a fucking mint every day—and twice as much when she doesn’t turn up because she’s being serviced by some stray meat. We don’t want our schedule buggered. Follow?”

  “Follow.” I was out of my depth among this lot. Safer back in old East Anglia between hoodlums giving me contrary instructions on pain of death.

  "This specimen gets access, Warren.”

  "Righdee, Lorane.” A guard slid corrugated metal aside, admitting us to a cramped bedlam.

  Imagine a sort of vast aircraft hangar, people milling aimlessly. Now imagine a room, looking quite like an unroofed cardboard cutout from a giant cereal packet, set in the center space. Unutterably phony. Stick a score of menacing black cameras and lights round the edge, creating a bright island. Trail cables everywhere and there you have it, a film set. Put canvas chairs outside the epicentral pool of chalky light. Add a couple of cabin rooms along one hangar wall. Honest, that’s all it is.

  “Vance to the right, Lovejoy. Max is in conference with Ray, far office. Shooting an hour from now. See me any problem, okay? Ciao.”

  “Er, Lorane. What am I here for, actually?”

  “Exasperatio!” she said. “I don’t frigging believe it.” And left rolling her eyes in exasperation. Lovely lass, ruined by having to live among mere mortals. Half-heartedly I wandered across cables, darting out of the way of the occasional maverick trolley. Vance was there in a canvas chair, holding forth to a couple of intent birds who were noting his pearls of wisdom. I tried saying hello but he was oblivious to all except his own nebulous thoughts.

  People were starting to surge slightly faster, some inner clock activating them. I saw Ray Meese emerge from his cabin, immediately gain a trio of sycophants, which Vance and Lorane joined, plus sundries. Quite a team trailed behind him as he headed for the cardboard set. He talked volubly, sweatily gesticulating and pointing. Furniture was moved. I was too far away to hear, but whatever he was saying people listened and obeyed. A good trick. Wish I had the knack. Well, I asked myself, looking around, where’s the glamour? Is this all it is?

  Waiting to me’s hell. I went out, wandered away from this hectic nonactivity, and soon found myself lost among a group of forklift trucks, trailer wagons, and caravans. I heard a squeak from a caravan and knocked to ask how to return to civilization. "Okayee,” sounded deeply from within. I opened the door. And stood. My breath left me gently.

  This bloke was spread on a bunk. Two birds straddled him, rocking. Naked in flagrante. And, I swear, he was reading the paper. I couldn’t even see which way round the birds were. He looked up, quite casual. The birds paused, staring. He swatted them with the paper to restart them. I recognized his face. An actor.

  “Yip?” he said. “Not due yet, hey?”

  “Er, no, sir,” I improvised weakly. “About an hour. Thank you.” I quickly closed the door, retreated. Despairing, I knocked on the next caraVan, opened it when a man’s voice said, “Yes?” This bonny girl lay sobbing her heart out on her bunk bed, fully clothed, thank heavens.
An elderly suited man sat alongside, legs crossed, taking notes. She saw me, screamed herself into a tantrum, all limbs thrashing. The gentleman was unperturbed. “Yes?”

  “Ah,” I said, aghast. “Sorry to, it’s one hour, er . .

  “Very well.” He said to the girl, “Saffron? You’re soon due in makeup.”

  She howled, thrashed about. Discreetly I left. Saffron Kay, star actress. Her name was on her caravan door. So was Stef Honor’s name, in his equally demanding bunker. Their faces were on all the studio posters. God, I was sweating. I followed the sound of hammering for guidance back to the set. What a world. What a team.

  “Lovejoy. Am I glad to see you.” Max stood there, reeling in the maelstrom.

  “Wotcher, Max. Look, is this shambles normal?”

  “In movies it’s tranquility itself. Got a minute?"

  My services were not urgently required so we went into the near cabin, me watching Max suspiciously. He seemed kaylied, drunk, ataxic. The two steps presented difficulty. I gave him a shove, and we were in a plush interior. I mean excessively affluent, velvets and ghastly modern cocktail cabinets, sofas, strip fluores- cents, a minuscule desk with a typewriter. The air hung a faint blue fug about us. Cloying. An undergraduate’s college room aroma. No wonder Max was wobbly. I was dizzy after half a breath.

  He poured us coffee from a bubbling glass bulb thing, sank with a sigh. He was disheveled, sunken of eye.

  “Thank Christ you’re here.” He lit a slender wilting fag, offered me one from his wallet. “No? Sorry. These keep me calm.” His fingers were trembling. Even my reflection in his spectacles quivered.

  “What’s up?”

  "This movie, that’s what’s up. We shoot the last interiors this week. Next week we’re scheduled on the action, British Museum, the gun scenes. Everybody’s giving me a rollicking.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, Lovejoy?” Until he emitted that bark I’d never known exactly what a hollow laugh was. “Because wolves, animals out there are crowding me for the frigging screenplay, that’s what.” “What’s a screenplay?"

  He stared, shook his head just like Lorane. “Jesus, Lovejoy. And you 're going to advise us? Here.” He lobbed me a manuscript thick as a bible. “A screenplay’s every instruction for every actor in every scene. It’s camera angles, shots, where and when they’re filmed, every word uttered.”

  So? Bored, I read half a typed page, much of it terse with abbreviations and capitals. The actors seemed to say very little. Every sliver of script seemed numbered. Odd sort of prose, if prose it was. Naturally I looked for the museum bit. Blank.

  “Where’re the museum scenes?”

  “You noticed.” He reclined, feet on the coffee table.

  “But the robbery. You must have some idea, Max.” I’m not so dim as to believe that financiers rush to throw money at a film company that hasn’t worked out the story.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Lovejoy. I’ve written the museum robbery. Sure. The trouble is I’ve written twenty. Every one different. Every one a reject.”

  “Who does the rejecting?” I asked it wearing innocent puzzlement. As if I didn’t know.

  “Mmmmh? Lorane. On Ray Meese’s orders.” He smoked, swigged. “I’ll give you my best version, Lovejoy. Try this: The blackhats, a trio of ex-SAS disgruntlers, do the plotting. Two men, one tart. I’ve good contrasts there, not bad. Gogogo so far. Hero Stef Honor and heroine Saffron Kay learn of the plot. They’re Russki descent, met at some Ukranian thrash.”

  “Great,” I said, making to rise. “Well, thanks for the—” “Sit. Hear the really good bit, Lovejoy.” He blinked, almost tearful. “The robbery’s done by a stolen helicopter. Stef happens to work in the city helicopter terminal. He gets a flame-thrower.”

  Max began to glow, painting hand pictures before my eyes. "Saffron’s a game girl—comes with him—nightmare dash through the West End—will they get there? Yes-yes-yes! Stef shoots down the whirlybird! Flames, explosion, kapow!”

  He waited, thrilled at his vision. "Good, Lovejoy?”

  I cleared my throat, nodded a bit. “But what if—?” "Nonononope!” He imploded, collapsed holding his head. “Sorry, Max. But you did ask.”

  He got a bottle of sherry, drank from the neck, lit another shaky flaky, swallowed the smoke. “You know what words I hate most in the English language, Lovejoy? What if. Hateful words. Those two words I’ll hate for ever and ever. Me, a writer, for Chrissakes. These last six months they’ve killed me.” He pulled himself together slowly, sucking at the bottle, drawing on the reefer.

  “Okay, Lovejoy. Version two: Hero Stef loves-hates-lusts-re- jects pretty bitty Saffron. She works at some crummy bookshop, Museum Street. What does she see, whiling her time at the counter, but a mysterious unexplained van. Get the picture? It comes, goes, comes. Cut to van interior—our ex-jailbirds and their woman, plotting. Saffron tries to warn people—they’re crooks, plotting something! People laugh, derision-scom-dismissal time. Hero Stef says hey babe, you’re right. She melts. All’s love-lust-randy-insight. They realize it’s tonight. For Christ’s sake!” He leapt, paced, gestured, swigged. “And guess what?”

  “The crooks’ve dug into the sewers underneath the museum?” He froze, sagged. “Oh, fuck.” He recovered, turned to jab a finger. "Maybe you’ll like script twenty: They’ve—”

  "Hidden on the roof during a daytime tour, abseil down in the darkness?”

  He wept instant tears, gulping and coughing, so I took his sherry off him and docked his fag. "Lovejoy. They’re murdering me out there. Every shagging hour assistant producers come pounding. Meese won’t speak to me. That cow Lorane badgers me night and day. Three phone calls before five this morning.” “Why didn’t you ask Major Bracegirdle for an idea?”

  “I took him ten—that’s T-E-N, Lovejoy.” He sniffed, rummaged for a hankie, wiped his snotty nose on a sleeve instead. "He nearly pissed himself laughing at every one. Said the thieves wouldn’t get two yards with any. The critics’d maul the movie rotten.”

  So this was it. At last. Firm confirmation of my reason for being here. And Lorane’s hatred, her decision to have me sacked, Vance’s evasiveness, my chill reception—all because this film mob identified me with Max, their duff writer.

  “Max. If you had a definite foolproof idea, how long would it take you to write this screenplay thing?”

  He looked, hope dawning. “If necessary I’d overlap it, do it day by day as they shoot. There’s time as long as I get the idea approved, Lovejoy.”

  I hesitated, thinking. “Then there’s no problem, Max. I’ll tell you how you get your tea leaves into the museum, so the goodies can do the gunfire bit. Tomorrow be okay?”

  He gaped. “Straight up, Lovejoy? You know how the thieves can enter undetected—?”

  “Easy.”

  “Believable? So the story’s credible, Lovejoy?” He didn’t trust his relief. “If it’s not, it’s toytown time instead of a heartstopper. And I’m negged for life. This is my one big chance, Lovejoy.” “Oh, I see all right,” I said with fervor. Because I really did, that something here was terribly, horrendously wrong. And it involved me. I’d have to move a lot faster than I’d thought. That quiet peaceful day in the pub admiring a stranger’s Roman ring now seemed a long way away. Danger to me is a stink. You pong the stench long before it comes round the corner. Like now.

  “Ray Meese’ll buy it? Be convinced?”

  "He’ll have to, Max.” I tried for confidence. “No other way.” Somebody knocked. A familiar-looking lass stood there, still smiling. Gabriella, from Bracegirdle’s security squad.

  “Hello, Lovejoy.” She was so bright. “They told me you were here. I’ve got a day off to watch the filming. Mind?” “Delighted.” I meant it. “All right, Max?”

  “Sure!” He came, jubilant. "Lovejoy’s got a screenplay!” He babbled my praises as we headed for the cardboard room and the camera mayhem.

  "Has he, indeed!” Gabriella slipped her arm through mine. She w
as so friendly. “Can the world be told?”

  “Sure!” Max’s relief and my deceit made me feel a twinge of guilt. “It’s plotproof! Ray’ll be over the moon!”

  “Won’t he just!” She hugged my arm. Her eyes met mine with candor. “And so will we, Lovejoy.”

  Evading her gaze, I said, “Hey, Max. Is it true there’s a valuable collection of antique movie cameras at a firm called Samuel- son’s? How about a deal?”

  The filming was a disappointment. I expected action, lights, a fireworks display of technology. Instead, me, Max, Gabriella stood there like lemons while people milled among cables and cameras round this cardboard centerpiece. Max tried describing the happenings, but gave up in the face of my incredulity.

  "Why’s everybody an assistant?” I asked him. You’ve never seen so many assistants in your life. There were assistant grips— whatever a grip is—and assistant cameramen, assistants to first, second, and even third thises and that. I learned Lorane, personal assistant to Ray Meese, was a power in the land. Vance, first assistant to the director, was if anything bigger still.

  “Don’t ask me details, Lovejoy,” Max said. “Just remember the lighting cameraman’s God. Hello, they’re going.”

  “It’s Stef Honor!” Gabriella was ecstatic.

  I made a mistake. “I didn’t realize Stef Honor was that old. Ouch!”

  Lorane had trod on my foot. “Keep up the tact, Lovejoy. You won’t make it to tea break. That’s the great star himself.”

  Stef Honor, the paper-reader from the caravan, his bored above-it-all look telling minions that a deity had come among us, doing planet earth a favor, sat on a stool while serfs poked at his hair, his clothes, showed him a script.

  “What’s up with his face, love?”

  "Keep your effing voice down.” Lorane’s grip on my arm hurt like hell. “It’s makeup. On film it’ll seem exactly right.”

  I’d seen him years ago in cops and robbers B-raters. Must be in his forties.

  "Ooooh, Saffron Kay!” Gabriella whispered to me how famous the actress was. "Imagine! Discovered as an infold pretty only last year, and now she’s a star!”