The Gondola Scam

by Jonathan Gash

  This book is dedicated to the ancient

  Chinese God of Literature K'uei Hsing,

  whom the sea monsters eternally rescue from drowning

  in the rising waters of the ocean.

  —LOVEJOY

  A story for Lai, Jackie, Pam, Elizabeth, Roy, and Susan

  as always, plus Ruth and Al's mob on the Venice run.

  "Death and Venice go together.”

  —James Morris, Venice, 1960

  "This place won't last long.”

  Old lady, on arriving in Venice. —E. V. Lucas, A Wanderer in Venice, 1923

  scam (skam) n. slang. A fraudulent scheme, especially one for making money quickly.

  The Gondola Scam

  1

  Usually people say women come first. Other times it's money, survival, anger, ambition. But deep down it's none of these delectables.

  It's antiques.

  Antiques are everything. First, last, every single thing.

  Forever and ever.

  Fingers tapped on the table, regular as a metronome. Dup, dup they went. And the price rose in tens with each tap from the ring of dealers. Dup. Ten. Dup. Plus ten. Dup. Another ten. And another and another. My face felt white.

  Ever been on tenterhooks for nothing? Think of an illegal auction in a seedy upstairs pub room. No public, only a ring of hard, grubby antique dealers tapping on the table, watching through the fag smoke with crinkled eyes. Not an antique in sight. Ten blokes and two birds all bidding in utter silence for a painting, with the pub yard and the taproom below heaving like anglers' bait. And me, mouth dry and chest thumping, wishing the whole sordid mess would simply go away. I tell you, this antique game seems quiet and contented—from the outside. Inside, it's horrendous, utterly crazy. I was frightened and fuming.

  The genuine auction had ended half an hour ago. The merry old public—that shoal of piranhas—were either celebrating hilariously in the boozer or crawling home in tears according to their degrees of success at today's bidding. Up here, the real business of the day was being done: the closed ring auction of dealers illegally reauctioning among themselves the items they'd bought a few minutes before.

  Dup. My player tapped again, the maniac, though I'd told him no. Five antique dealers had dropped out and now sat sulking. That left seven, including Linda from Tolleshunt. And that lovely ash blonde who seemed so determined. Then there was Sam Wiltshire, he of the merry jokes, supposedly bidding for himself. There was Big Frank from Suffolk, with wives and gelt to spare and antique silver always on his mind—he gets married like other blokes go to the races, meaning to say frequently and never quite sure of the outcome. Then a hoary old dealer from Salford I didn't know but who was taking all this silent bidding in his stride, kippering us all with a dustbin of a pipe. Instead of tapping, his finger nudged a little electronic printout calculator, a neat way of anticipating the arguments which often happen after the dealer's ring "knocks down"—stops at the highest bid. He had sense. Jasper Coke (his real name, incidentally) was also keeping in but gradually losing impetus. He's a cheerful, square-shaped bloke with a shop somewhere down the sea estuary, supposedly expert in porcelain and Georgian household furniture. That only means he's thick as a plank, because antique dealers always are, though rumor has it Jasper can actually read and write.

  That leaves only my player, the goon I was mad at. Mr. Malleson was pretty well known from his "sweeps" through East Anglia in search of antiques for his London showroom. When he has any doubt, he simply hires somebody like me for a day or so. A sound rule, you might think.

  "Call up," he said at that point. I could have kicked him, almost groaned aloud. "Five."

  The old Salford geezer thumbed his calculator to increase by fifteens now instead of tens. Malleson tapped the table, and round the morons went, dup, dup. Only this time Linda lifted a flat hand, the sign of dropping out. I was glad, because I've a soft spot for Linda. We once got up to no good together in Norwich after selling a Gantz water-color of Madras, genuine early 1820s. (His paintings in the past three years have soared in value since the greeting-card people discovered them; if you pass one up, don't say you weren't warned.) She carefully avoided my eye (she often does), but must have caught a vibe of my impotent rage. The luscious blonde sitting directly opposite my idiotic player was still in there, tighter lips though and increasingly bitter about something. Pretty as the picture we were bidding for—a million times more authentic. I'd twice told my player, the duckegg, that the painting was a fake, but he knew best, like all lunatics. Now he was well on the way to losing a fortune. Serve the silly sod right.

  Sam Wiltshire folded, both palms flat, cracking, "A Carpaccio oil sketch just can't be worth nine whole pence." He got a wan smile from Jasper Coke, who was already out of his depth and dropped out next round. The blonde fingered her pearls (real, a risky baroque single string) and tapped. Three left.

  Malleson, still knowing best, tapped.

  The Salford dealer took some snuff, varoomed droplets over us all, and tapped. I was practically screaming inside.

  "Call up, five." The blonde did a complicated casual ritual with powder compact and mirror. It entailed a lot of lip play, and was watched with fascination by almost all. Even the morose dealers huddled in the comer stopped grumbling and admired her. Linda sardonically lit a fag and walked to the window to show she thought the blonde was a scheming bitch. You now had to bid on in twenties. Old Salford disgustedly clicked his calculator off, raising a palm.

  Two left.

  "Call up to twenty-five," Malleson said calmly. My name would be mud after this lark.

  The picture they were after was a clear fraud. Some mauler had tried to fake that complicated bit of gear from Carpaccio's Knight in a Landscape which they guard so carefully in Lugano, with enough grounding to suggest his authentic brushwork. Nice attempt, but done by some soulless cretin, doubtless with a string of diplomas to show how "expert" he was. Pathetic.

  "Call up, five," the blonde said, which made even the hard drinkers freeze. Bids now in thirties. Disconcertingly, I found the bird's eyes on me. Stop your man, her lovely eyes signaled, stop him because he's a fool. I reddened. I don't need birds telling me that, but what could I do? Malleson was big money. I didn't have two farthings to rub together. As usual.

  "Call up, five," said my player, the world's expert know-all. The maniac had raised the bidding to steps of thirty-five quid. I almost fainted. He'd gone bid-happy, that weird state of compulsion in which you'll bid to any level, for any old piece of tat. It happens. I once saw two women go bid-happy, stunning a whole mob of dealers into a dazed silence while they dueled for a Woolworth chair off a junkheap. It's a very dangerous state to get yourself into, because you just can't—can't—stop.

  A hand on my shoulder pressed me down. I'd actually reached for Mr. Malleson's neck in my blind rage.

  "Want a drink, Lovejoy?"

  "Eh?" My gaze cleared. Linda had come to stand close and was smiling calming messages into my face. Some dealer snickered at my name. Some friend interested in his welfare quickly shushed him.

  "A drink." Linda held up her own glass to prove nourishment was available on the premises.

  "Er, no, ta." I jerked my shoulder away to see the blonde spread her palm. It was over. The bird had spotted that Mr. Malleson had gone bid-happy, and ducked out.

  He turned and glanced at me, proud as a peacock. The London dealer immediately got his tabs out—addressed IOU blanks. There was a flurry as scribbled IOUs changed hands.

  "Hurry up. Next item's Lot Seventy," Sam Wiltshire said. "Who got it?"

  "I did." Jasper Coke pulled a face as somebody muttered the price. "That early monk's chair. Genuine." Genuine all right, I thought, in a sulk. Only, a wooden
armchair which has a rectangular back that hinges over to form a

  small table resting horizontally on the chair's arms is called a chair table, or a "table-chairwise." We dealers call it a monk's chair (a fairly modern, invented name like "grandfather clock") to put medieval flavor into the price tag. I caught Jasper's eye, and he had the grace to give a wry smile.

  "Okay," Sam said, grinning. He always acts as auctioneer. "Start at ten, up in twos." He tapped the table and they were off again.

  "Cheers," I said, clearing out.

  "Oh, Lovejoy," warbled my erstwhile player, but I was heading for the bar downstairs. If he didn't want to listen to me, he was beyond hope.

  I got my pint after a bayonet charge through the mob of dealers and paid for Tinker's pint to be sent into the taproom.

  The filthy old devil gave me a gappy grin through the bar hatch, but it quickly changed to consternation when I gave him the bent eye. He eeled into the porch. "What's up, Lovejoy? We in trouble?"

  "The goon bought it."

  He goggled, wiped his stubble in a tattered sleeve. "Christ. An' you let him?"

  "What the hell could I do? He's in the ring, not me."

  There are two good things about Tinker. He's the world's best barker—slang for antique finder—and he stinks to high heaven. The first is great because I'm Tinker's wally, the antique dealer he finds for. The second is great because his pong clears a space in any crowd, so I can pay for more beer. Like now.

  "He must be off his friggin' nut, Lovejoy." He hitched his frayed ex-army greatcoat and shook his head, mystified. "He know you was a divvie?"

  "That's why he hired me, you burke."

  "Here, Lovejoy." Grinning, he plucked at my arm with his grease-stained mitten. "I'd like to be there when them

  London buyers tell him it's a fake." He fell about at the notion, cackling evilly.

  "Everybody'll think I guessed wrong," I grumbled.

  "Nar," Tinker said scornfully, grabbing another ale. "Every dealer in East Anglia knows you."

  "Everybody but Malleson. Where is she. Tinker?"

  "Your bint? By the fire." He took the note I slipped him. "I reckon she's makin' for flu, Lovejoy. She only has orange juice."

  Even fuming, I had to laugh at that. The thought of anybody drinking an orange's crushed innards makes him giddy. I told him, "Be in the boozer eightish. Find out who vans off that Yankee silver salver, and if that Tadolini Venus and Cupid changes hands before tonight."

  "Right, mate."

  The rare Edward Winslow salver was a delight, made in Boston about 1695. The illicit ring upstairs would bid for it soon. I had to know who eventually owned it, because that's where tomorrow's fakes would come from. It was worth a couple of new cars in anybody's shopwindow. The Tadolini figure was as beautiful, but only 1845 or so and about a quarter of the price. Rome always did nice stuff, with or without an empire.

  Sure enough, Connie was there, scrunged up over the pub's log fire. She's always perished, even in the hottest bed.

  "Darling. At last." She reached up to my hand. "It's so drafty here. Can we go?"

  "Bring my bag."

  We sliced the fug and reached the great beyond where my zoomster waited hub-deep in its flaking rust.

  "Why do we carry this stupid thing, darling?" Connie indicated the plastic bag. It carried Christie's insignia, 1766, South Kensington.

  'To impress customers."

  If her teeth hadn't been chattering from the cold, she would have screamed with laughter. She just muttered, "In this ancient open boat?" and climbed in. Lovely legs.

  "You can always walk," I countered, flipping the switch and going round to crank the handle. It's an old Austin Ruby. People are always trying to nick its candle-powered headlamps and door handles. Connie gets mad because it has no top roof, and the cover doesn't work.

  A young bloke nearby laughed, disconcertingly shrill. He was in one of those DeLoreans and seemed all fawns and yellows. I shrugged, deciding not to take offense. His lemon leathers could have bought and sold me. I tend not to argue with wealthy dealers, because they're the dumbest. Just to prove it, a familiar if irritating voice sounded in my earhole.

  "A word, Lovejoy." Good old knowledgeable wiseacre Mr. Malleson had caught us up and stood there in his posh gaberdine. "Good day, Mrs. Lovejoy," he added, eyeing Connie. I didn't mind that, because you can't help looking long and hard at Connie.

  "A friend," I corrected quickly, in case she developed a craving.

  "Excuse us, please," he said with courtesy. I could tell he was frosty. "Lovejoy. I wanted you for the Flemish marquetry cabinet the northern dealer was putting in the ring. The one with the metallic-paint effect."

  "It's genuine." I'd told him this a hundred times, but London antique dealers are as thick as those from anywhere else. And after today's performance, maybe thicker. "Antwerp, say 1670, 1680. And while we're at it, that metallic paint is chip mother-of-pearl."

  "I failed," he said, stone-faced. "The bidding went quite extraordinary after you left—"

  "Almost as if the others were ganging up?"

  "That's right. I'm not blaming you, Lovejoy— "

  "No, Mr. Malleson. But I'm blaming you," I gave the handle a savage crank and the engine spluttered obediently. If it hadn't, I’d have kicked it to bits, the temper I was in.

  "Me? Why?" The duckegg was honestly amazed. I ask you.

  "You hired me to suss out genuine antiques, right?"

  "Of course. You have the reputation of being a divvie. A very valuable gift."

  "Which means I can feel genuine antiques, right?"

  My car door falls off if you pull the handle, so I stepped over the door and slid behind the wheel.

  "Well, yes. That's the supposition, Lovejoy."

  "Not supposition. Truth. I tipped you that painting is modern phony, and you still bought it."

  "That was your opinion, Lovejoy."

  "Wrong, Mr. Malleson." My frost was at least as cold as his. "A divvie just knows. That's very, very different from a mere opinion."

  "I see. Offended pride." He gave one of his wintry smiles, clearly the London zillionaire dealer coping with troublesome provincial riffraff. "Tell me, Lovejoy. Are you an expert on formalisms in Tiepolo's composition?"

  "No."

  "Canvas microscopy? Spectrographic analysis of paint? Chemicals?" He went mercilessly down a formidable list, getting a denial every time. "It may interest you to know, Lovejoy, that I am an expert on all those topics. And there's one other proof." He eyed me and my zoomster. "The fact is that you are threadbare, frayed, generally ill-attired, and clearly subnourished. Your obsolete car is falling apart. I, on the other hand, have the best from each year's motor show. Three London tailors work very hard to please me. Do I make my point?"

  "You'll not be the first expert art dealer I've visited in clink, Mr. Malleson," I said evenly, and gunned my half-pint engine as a hint. "Sell that fake, and Scotland Yard's fraud squad'll come peering in your window."

  He was examining me curiously. "You're so sure?"

  "There's no question. That gunge was painted this side of Easter."

  He smiled a disbelieving smile and pulled out a bolster-sized wallet. "We can only agree to disagree then. Here's half your fee."

  The sight of the notes he held out made my heart fill with longing, but to my horror I felt my stupid head shake. My voice said, "No thanks, Mr. Malleson. I won't help you defraud yourself."

  The engine wheezed and the little Ruby trundled off leaving him standing there. A couple of dealers cheered derisorily and Linda gave me a wave from the saloon bar's window. I saw the ash blonde by that elegant lemon-tinted customed DeLorean. She must have heard every word. As we clattered out onto the main Edmundsbury road. Cram-pie tried flagging me down. His real name's Cramphom, but with a name like Lovejoy you learn discrimination at an early age.

  "Can't stop, Crampie," I bawled over my engine's din. "On my way to a deal."

  "Get stuffed, Lovejo
y," he yelled back. "Thought you were in a Rolls-Royce, not a sewing machine."

  "Lovejoy!" Connie was scandalized. "He's your dealer friend! You can't leave him standing in the cold wind."

  Honestly. People are so innocent. Ben Cramphorn's a roadman—that is, he procures lifts pretending he's on his way to buy his poor dying friend's priceless antique. His "poor dying friend" is fit as a flea, because it's his partner, Phil Watmore, made up to look ailing. The "priceless" antique is any old chunk of dross they can't sell. The aim is to get the kindly motorist interested in buying the antique and driving to Phil's auntie's house in Wivenhoe, which is the place they usually work from, seeing she pays the rates, rent, and all other costs. Sounds very dicey, doesn't it? Surprising how often it works.

  "You're awful, Lovejoy!" Connie was fuming.

  “I’ll tell Ken you said that." He's Connie's husband. They own this small chain of shops, shoes or something.

  "Where's the heater on this thing, Lovejoy?" That's the best about Connie. Predictability. Her thoughts never leave temperature for long. "Is there no way we can stop this terrible gale? Take your hand off my knee."

  "I'll stop for a hot-water bottle," I said.

  "Will you, darling?" she said eagerly. "That's a good idea."

  I glared at her, marveling. There she sat, hair streaming in the wind, slender throat deep in her mohair, eyes sparkling, luscious lips moist, eyes dazzling. As exciting a picture of beauty as ever a woman can be, and still she takes a sardonic crack as gospel.

  She put her arms through mine. "I hated Mr. Malleson He has no right to speak to you like that. Even if you do look a mess, I love you, darling."

  "Er, thanks, love," I said. Some women baffle me. We pulled into this dark layby because I was getting desperate. Only a woman can rub out the toxic anger of a failure such as I'd endured, and Connie regarded sex on the move as vulgarity gone mad.

  Which is how we came within a few seconds of seeing the whole terrible thing.

  My old crate, wheezing and panting, was waiting to get back on the road—no mean feat, this, because it was uphill at the layby's reentry point—when a limousine cruised out of the darkness behind its great headlights, and I recognized it as Mr. Malleson's.