The Great California Game l-14

by Jonathan Gash

  “I see.”

  “And a small Philadelphia pier table —” I held my hand less than a yard above her carpet “— could buy the very next hotel.” I was yelling down at the numbskull. “You can’t criticize Bill for not being interested when you’re stupid as him —”

  “Sit down, Lovejoy.”

  Her tone chilled me. I sat, suddenly less narked. Her brain was clicking, her gaze distant and venomous. I wished I was back at the bar. We sat for a full minute. She stirred.

  “Lovejoy. Sophie Brandau. Her jewellery today.”

  “Looked genuine, Gina.” Safe ground?

  “Was everybody’s?”

  “What do you think I am?” I said indignantly, “I was behind the bar. All the tom—er, jewellery—I saw was genuine, far as I could tell. I liked that eighteenth-century Milanese brooch Miss Palumba was wearing, though some nerk had tried to restore it with platinum.” Silence. “You see —”

  “Lovejoy.” She meant shut up. Then why had the stupid cow asked me to speak? I tried not to sulk while she did more of her long-range venom. When she spoke it was muted, sibilant.

  “Make up to Sophie, Lovejoy.”

  We’d not had a row. “Beg pardon?”

  The curtain glided open, some electronic trick. Nicko was sitting alone at the long board table, reading his endless printouts.

  “Become special to her.”

  I checked my hearing against memory, decided I wasn’t hallucinating. “Er, exactly what is it you’re —”

  “Do it!” she spat. I shot to my feet, edged away.

  “Do you mean…?”

  “Into Sophie Brandau. And report her pillow talk.”

  “Look, Gina.” I retreated, babbling. “That’s something I can’t —”

  “Nicko?”

  Her husband spoke, still flicking along those lists. “You opened a packet of money, Lovejoy?”

  “From Tye Dee?” Maybe they wanted it back.

  “Your prints are on it. The money’s traceable. It was stolen from a Pittsburgh bank. A guard was killed. The bullet matches the gun in your hotel room.”

  My voice went faint. “Pittsburgh? I’ve only just arrived in the US. It’s marked on my passport…”

  “Illegal migrant worker? Criminal history? Now a lethal bank robber?” Nicko brought out my passport. ”No record of any date stamp in this, Lovejoy.”

  I’d seen the Immigration man stamp it at the airport. I sat. Gina was suddenly impatient.

  “You’ve your orders, Lovejoy. And keep me informed of the Hawkins project.”

  The what? Why didn’t she just ask Moira Hawkins? She was only yards away, swanning around the deck arena with Fat Jim Bethune. And why did this megabuck outfit worry about a cheap dream in a cheap bookshop?

  “It’s just some loony scheme about a missing manuscript.”

  “Realistic? A practical proposition?”

  “Well…”I felt it was time to splash over the side, somehow jump ship and make a run for it. Less than a few hours ago my only worry was being late at Fredo’s diner. “Her sister’s the grailer. That’s a nickname for crets who waste their lives chasing a rainbow. The Holy Grail, see? The Hawkins daftness is only a Sherlock Holmes novel. It went missing in the Victorian postal system. Every nation has its loonies,” I said apologetically, in case Gina or Nicko took umbrage. “We have folk who’re chasing two of the Virgin Mary’s milk teeth, supposedly in a pot in Syria. Fakes are life’s real trouble.”

  Gina said softly, “That’s so, so right. Go now.”

  I decided to play along as ordered but to cut out first chance I got. So whatever I promised now would be superfluous, since I wouldn’t be here to be checked on. I’d smile my very best at Sophie Brandau, tell Gina the gossip, then exit pursued by bear.

  “How often do I report?”

  “Nightly,” she said, making my mouth gape by adding, “You come to my cabin.”

  And Nicko sitting there, deep in his numbers, while his wife tells a stranger to come tiptoeing into her boudoir in the candle hours? “Er, wouldn’t it be best if I —?”

  “Out!”

  I crept away like a night-stealer. Just in time to get pinned against the nearest bulkhead by Orly. He was ten times tougher than he looked.

  “Lovejoy. You keep away, capeesh? Gina’s not switching, hear? Not to you, not anyone.”

  “Okay, okay!”

  It was Tye who prised Orly off. I recovered my wind while Tye shook his head and lowered Orly to the deck. He’d lifted him one-handed with barely a grunt of effort. At least I’d one ally. That’s what I thought then.

  “Leave Lovejoy, Orly,” Tye said. “He’s taking orders, same as the rest of us. You want changes, you ask Jennie, okay?”

  Ask Jennie? Not Nicko, Gina? I watched Orly hate me out of sight, and followed Tye towards the sound of the music and glam shambles. I’d be sorry to land Tye in it when I ran for it and shook the dust of New York off my shoes.

  Tye paused at the foot of the gangway. “A tip, Lovejoy. This is big. Nobody gets outa here less’n he’s allowed. ’Kay?”

  “I’ll ask first, Tye. That’s a promise.”

  He gave me the bent eye for a moment.

  “I can’t tell ifn you’re stoopid or clever. Know that?” He sighed and started to climb to the upper deck. “Trouble is, it’s the same thing.”

  With ignorance born of idiocy, I ignored that warning too.

  As I rejoined Bill behind the bar the tannoy was announcing that the opening game would commence in one hour. O’Cody, portly grey-hair in the magenta silk waistcoat of a monsignor, chuckled when Jennie joked there was still time for a quick prayer. Others laughed along. Puzzling, because I hadn’t seen a cleric come aboard, though somebody very like him had. I shelved the oddity, smiled, located Sophie Brandau in the glittering throng, whispered to Tye to have somebody spill a little vino rosso on the lovely Sophie’s dress, caught up a silver tray—gadrooned, my favourite style—and briskly went to start my compulsory courting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  « ^ »

  A spillage on a woman’s dress is an indictable offence. Funny, that, when it’s supposed to be lucky. The old Queen Mum used to say ta to nervous waiters when they plopped a drop on her lap, for luck given. Sophie Brandau didn’t quite go spare, but Blanche hurtled to the rescue when Tye — too clever to commit the crime himself —sent a waiter to accidentally tilt a carafe in passing. Kelly Palumba and a thin straw-haired wastrel called Epsilon were especially concerned. Denzie Brandau gave a bored half-glance, made some remark to Moira Hawkins, causing people to fall about. I diagnosed a husband making capital from his wife’s clumsiness. I was beginning to dislike the politician. I took over from Kelly Palumba, who cracked to her pal, “Better than your TV productions, Epsilon!” I didn't much care for her either.

  “Mind, Mrs. Brandau,” I said. “Don’t stretch the material.” People don’t think. Her dress was a rich brocade, royal blue with sky sleeves. I commandeered a water decanter from a waiter and drenched a serviette. “Macon wine leaves a stain otherwise.”

  I drew her to one side as the chatter reasserted itself. We were by the rail, landward side. “A few more linens, Blanche, please,” whittled the gathering down.

  That left Sophie Brandau and myself. Fussing like I imagined a meticulous waiter would, I blotted the brocade. It was near the hem, and took a few minutes. During it, I passed comments on the surroundings. Which made me notice the man in the motor opposite the pier. He didn’t look much like a photographer, but the motionless Wildlife Internations van nearby with its odd black-sheening windows could be full of them. He was talking into a car phone. So?

  On board, however, Mrs. Brandau and me were no longer the centre of attention. I placed everything on the tray, and happened to notice her face with a start of astonishment. Overacting, of course.

  “Good heavens!” I said. “I remember you now! That beautiful sautoir, wasn’t it?”

  The diamond chain was ther
e, worn as it should be from both shoulders (I hate the one-shoulder sur l’epaule style so popular in nineteeth-century France, because what the hell’s the pendant to do?) The pendant was there, tassel shape, four compound strands. Diamonds genuine as genuine is, and antique old. The central diamond was huge, bigger than the poor lumbering zircon she’d substituted for it. Seventeen carats? Nearer twenty, and brilliant-cut, which was good going for that kind of date.

  “You noticed,” she said, quiet and pale.

  “Did I stare? I apologize, Mrs. Brandau.”

  You have to feel sorry for any woman caught out in deception. It’s routine for a man. Okay, when some bird rumbles you it’s uncomfortable for a few weeks—well, ten minutes—but then you get over it and life’s rich pageant rolls on. “I said nothing, about the pendant.”

  “I guessed from the way you looked at it,” she said. ”You’re Lovejoy? The one Nicko had the trouble with over the furniture?”

  That sounded nasty. “I’m the one who advised Nicko how not to ruin his antique,” I corrected stiffly.

  “You’ve become quite a joke,” she said, not even near laughing. “Facing Nicko down over a wine stain.”

  I said, narked, “We don’t deserve the antiques we’ve got. The moron you got to dock your sautoir pendant and substitute with zircons wants locking up.”

  “You’re good at antiques?” Her eyes were so sad, but still wearing that calculating quality women find hard to forgive themselves for. “Can you do valuations?”

  “Accurately. But…” I hesitated. Her eyes were lovely, brown, deep and broad in a slender face. She looked out of place among this lot. “But sometimes people don’t like the truth. Antiques deserve it.” Well, hang veracity. I’d got orders.

  “And restorations? Antiques firms give such conflicting opinions.” She said it like lines in a rehearsal. She’d been as glad of the spillage excuse as I. Maybe she had orders, too.

  “They would,” I said with feeling. “Valuation companies are on the fiddle. I do everything free—for genuine antiques, that is.” I don’t, of course. Never have. But my life might be at stake.

  She thought a second. A gust of laughter rose from the party over something political.

  “Tell one of the waitresses to get me a bitter soda, Lovejoy,” she said quickly. “The Game starts soon. When it’s quiet, bring me a drink to my cabin. It’s zero two zero.”

  American for twenty. “Right. What drink, exactly?”

  She stared at me, shook her head as if having difficulty. “Anything convincing, Lovejoy.”

  What drink was convincing, in Long Island Sound?

  “Will there be a stain?” she was asking pointedly as people started drifting from the canopied arena. I recognized feminine obfuscation at work, and loudly played along.

  “Certainly not, Mrs. Brandau.” I felt like telling her it hadn’t been wine, only water, another of my deceits, but I needed all my honesty in reserve. One of the guests was now in a military uniform, I saw as I made my way back to Bill. I hadn’t noticed any general arriving. What was it, fancy dress? But ranks above corporal are where the Mysterious Orient begins, as far as I’m concerned.

  “Here, Bill. What’s three stars mean?”

  “They mean you saw nuttin’, Lovejoy.” Bill was flipping a last-minute cocktail for Kelly Palumba, who was now sloshed. She giggled.

  “Hey, Lovejoy! Tell this hunk I’m gonna get some work outa him real soon…”

  Epsilon was pouting. “I have to go, Kelly. See you here in an hour.” What card game lasts exactly an hour?

  “That’s time enough,” Kelly told Bill. A woman leering is not a pretty sight. I was glad when she started to slide.

  I caught her as her knees buckled. Blanche and two waitresses flew up, hustling her out of sight with that concealed anger they reserve for a transgressing sister.

  The party was thinning. Seeing nuttin’, I didn’t notice Denzie Brandau smoothing Moira Hawkins’s bottom as they strolled off together. Nor did I notice the covert sign the Monsignor made to the General, fingers tapping palms in the universal let’s-cut-percent-ages plot. Nor the unconcerned way Nicko indicated his watch when Jennie started rounding up the strays like an eager sheepdog.

  But I did notice the way Bill rearranged my clean glasses which I’d placed on the counter. And the glint of the low sun showing the people on shore. You don’t hide a watcher among trees, nor conceal him behind a window sill. You put him in a motor, where shoppers park their cars. Like the man Bill had continually checked on with a casual glance now and then ever since the party had started. Still, all was normal.

  Except it all wasn’t. We were under surveillance. Bill was in on it, with his signalling glasses and his flashy tricks with cocktail shakers. I was anxious to warn him about Gina’s questioning, but got interrupted by a last-minute matron, one who’d had more face-lifts than Tower Bridge. She was a born gusher, had fawned continuously on the Monsignor, and now swigged her sixth martini like medicine, grimacing as it took effect.

  “Wish me luck, honey,” she said, pondering whether to go for another. I decided to get shut of her.

  “Luck? Here. Take this.” I took out a cent. “It was my first ever American coin. You know the old saying, your first penny buys an hour’s luck.”

  “I never heard that one.”

  She couldn’t have. I’d just made it up. Women who doubt really nark me. “It’s true. Here.” I passed it over with a discreet smile, which mercifully got rid of her.

  “Is that proverb straight, Lovejoy?”

  “Certainly!” Now even Bill was sceptical. I hate mistrust in other people. We started to clear up.

  “Do a deal, Bill?” The deck arena was clear of guests. Gina Aquilina drifted through—changed again, exquisitely sheathed in a risky purple, silver chain accessories—with Orly prattling amusing prattle. He’d changed too, a smoothie’s white tuxedo. I waited until they’d strolled inside.

  “Could I afford it?”

  Witticisms gall me, when they’re at my expense. “Watch your back, that’s all.” Zole’s words.

  “My back?” He laughed, but eyes alert and wary.

  “Gina asked about you. I said you were a great barman.” I glanced over his shoulder at the shore, made sure he knew where I was looking. “I could have dropped you in the clag, Bill. That means you owe me.”

  “How much, Lovejoy?”

  “The ten dollars Tony owed. I could have said you were hopeless, got you the sack.”

  “I didn’t figure you for a mercenary, Lovejoy.” He brought out a ten-dollar bill, placed it on the serving basin. He was puzzled now, and even warier.

  “I’m working my passage up, up and away. I need every groat I can get. Thanks.” I slid the ten dollars back to him, finished wiping the glasses. The bar might be wired for sound, vision, heaven knows what. Just like the party area, or the rails where I’d attended to Sophie Brandau.

  Bill looked at the money. He finally recovered it, said nothing more, except gave a curt nod of recognition. We wound up the bar.

  “Reckon Kelly Palumba’s recovered?”

  “No names, Lovejoy. House rules.”

  “Right. Only, it’s been about an hour since she went moribund.” I drew breath. Come darkness, I’d be over the side and swimming for it, or being smuggled away in some kind lady’s purse. Sophie Brandau was that lady. “Bill. What would you call a really convincing drink, for a lady?”

  CABIN 020 was midships, port side. That meant its portholes faced the open sound. Light was dwindling now, sailing boats and small craft setting sailing lights shimmering the darkening waters. The Gina was starting to sway almost imperceptibly. I knocked, licked my hand to smooth my uncontrollable thatch, and donned a bright waiter’s beam.

  Mrs. Brandau’s welcome wasn’t much. “Come in, Lovejoy. Sit.”

  Hell, like a dog. Reluctantly I deposited the tray, an old Burmese original lacquer. Criminal lo use it. I’d only chosen it to prevent Bill from
scouring it to extinction. It was one hundred and fifty years old, living on borrowed time in this company of millionaire scatter-brains.

  The cabin was a shipboard compact, folding tables and furniture screwed down and all that. It was highly feminine, three mirrors, of which one was a true Regency that caught my breath. I sat on a low settee, modern crud, and tried to think polite thoughts about the lovely woman opposite.

  Worry shreds a woman’s confidence, doesn’t it. It takes the steam out of the face somehow, shows in the eyes. This lady was never going to bat for America, not the way she’d crumpled inwardly.

  “Something I said, love?” I asked.

  “You were kind, Lovejoy. I need somebody kind.”

  This sort of talk dismays me. We’re vulnerable enough without trust raising its fearful head.

  “Look, lady. I’m knee-deep in muck and bullets. I’ve hardly a bean. All I really know, between ourselves, is antiques and nothing but antiques. I’m also…” How to phrase it so I sounded superb? “Don’t trust me, is all I’m saying.”

  “Sophie,” she said listlessly. Women take no notice. You might as well talk to the wall. “It’s my husband, Lovejoy.”

  Oh, hell. I half rose. She gestured me down.

  “How can I stop him?” She noticed my face, which must have debeamed somewhere along the line. “You’re the one doing the Sherlock with Moira Hawkins. Denzie’s crazy. It’s not the first time he’s been stupid. She’s dragging him in. We’re in over our heads. She’s persuaded him it’ll bring fame, a fortune. The biggest PR fillip ever. Even push him to the presidency. He’s like a man demented. And she’s playing on it.”

  That was it. Expectancy lifted her eyebrows. “Well, Lovejoy?”

  Clearly this was no seduction scene between randy serf and lusting contessa. Disappointed, I revealed how I’d encountered the Hawkinses. “All I know is that Moira’s sister Rose frequents the bar where I work…”

  Sophie heard me out. She lit a cigarette, clicking the lighter a few times. “I’d hoped you would be more cooperative. If it’s a deal you want…”

  I’d nothing to deal with. Yet here was a millionaire’s wife offering… Suddenly I wanted to know more, more about Moira Hawkins’s project, why Sophie was so concerned. I mean, I’d seen the Hawkins place. It was mundane, cheap even. This lady’s emerald solitaire could buy Rose, Moira, bookshop and all. I’d been ordered to play along with this delectable bird, so I’d be in the clear with Gina even if I said, “Okay, love. I’ll do what you want.”