The Great California Game l-14

by Jonathan Gash

  “Responsibility’s a killer,” I agreed.

  “That’s so right!” he cried, his self-pity grabbing any passing sympathy. “I’m sometimes drained. How marvellous that you understand!”

  “Like antique prices.”

  He smiled roguishly. “I knew it! You’re an antique dealer!”

  I smiled back. “Antique dealers give antiques a bad name. Like boozers give booze.”

  He passed glittering compliments to the waitresses over the drinks. He’d insisted on madeleines. I had a few, though cakes that little go nowhere and it was over an hour since we’d left the plane.

  “I absolutely adore negotiating, Lovejoy!” He yoo-hooed to a sports car arriving at the stables. A lady in a yellow hat waved. I’d never seen such friendliness. I felt in a procession. “What’ll we negotiate about?”

  “Mr Mortdex’s collections,” I said. “Their falling valuation —”

  He sat up, focusing his attention.

  “Falling? You’re misinformed, Lovejoy. There isn’t a collection that has withstood fluctations better than Mr Mortdex’s. I select and buy, on an absolutely personal basis.”

  The tea was rotten cinnamon stuff. “I mean Wednesday.”

  He was a moment checking his mind. I knew he was desperate to dash indoors screaming for the computer, but he was perfect so couldn’t be found wanting. Finally he swallowed pride, that costly commodity. “What happens next Wednesday?”

  “Your statue gets impounded.”

  “Statue?” He tried indolence, then casual when that didn’t work either. I’m all for façades, which are valuable things, but only when they’re some use.

  “Aphrodite. Fifth century BC, that you bought in a secret deal three years ago. Wasn’t it twenty million dollars? That English art dealer who lives not far from Bury Street in St James’s? Everybody was so pleased — except the Sicilians.”

  A lovely bird did her splash, rose laughing from the pool in nice symbolism, yoo-hooed, looked hard at us when Verbane ignored her.

  “You’re thinking of the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu, Lovejoy. They’re the ones who bought Aphrodite.”

  “I heard,” I said. I waved to the girl for him. She returned the salutation doubtfully. “Tye? Could you go down to the motor car, please? I think I’ve left that dictaphone thing.”

  “You be okay, Lovejoy?”

  “I’ll shout if I’m in danger.”

  We were alone. During the intermission Verbane summoned bourbon entombed in ice. He quaffed long, had another. I really envy these folk who can drink early in the day without getting a headache.

  “I haven’t any strong feelings, Mr Verbane,” I said as honestly as I could. “Hoving’s opinions about the Getty purchase aren’t my concern. Though I wouldn’t like to discount anything Hoving said, especially after he bought the St Edmundsbury Cross.”

  “Are you claiming —?”

  “Nothing. These rumours about a second Aphrodite being taken from Sicily and sold through London are the sort of rumours that shouldn’t be resuscitated.” I saw his brow clear a little. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course I do.” He coughed, took a small white pill thing while I waited with the silent respect all medicines deserve.

  “I deny having Aphrodite, Lovejoy.”

  “Course. I’ll support you, if anyone asks my opinion.”

  This scandal isn’t quite a scandal, not as major art and antiques frauds/purchases/scams/sales go these days. It was just before the nineties that the Aphrodite row erupted. She’s lovely, an ancient Greek marble and limestone masterpiece spirited—not too strong word—into the harsh public glare which money provides for any valuable art form. The Getty people made honest inquiries of the Italian Government, and bought. Then nasty old rumours began whispering to vigilant Italian police that Aphrodite was stolen. Aphrodite (her name actually means “Lovely Arse”, incidentally, though the Romans called her Venus) is worth fighting for. The battle continues, though the value’s soared in the meantime.

  The rumours I’d heard had mentioned a second Aphrodite from the same source. Possibly a fake, my contact had said on the phone two days back. Well, Verbane’s delusions were no business of mine. His support was. The antique trade’s maxim is: sell support, never give.

  “At a price, Lovejoy?”

  “No. At a swap, Mr Verbane.”

  “I don’t trade that way. Mr Mortdex hates it.”

  I could see Tye slowly heading back. I’d arranged a series of signals should I want him to take more time, I tried to flatten my hair reflexively. He instantly paused to watch the horses, now mounted and cantering. “You buy at auctions, Mr Verbane.”

  “I heard about you, Lovejoy.” No pansy mannerisms now. He was lighting a cigarette, cold as a frog. “Doing the rounds, protection racket in museums?”

  “You’ve been misinformed. I made a sale, in antiques. If your informant told you differently, she’s lying. Which should set you wondering why, eh?

  He’d stared when I implied his informant was a woman. It wasn’t as wild a guess as all that. The second Aphrodite was supposed to have been “bought”by an American natural history team in search of lepidoptera near Palermo. Natural history, as in Mrs. Beckman. I calmed him. “Mrs. Beekman didn’t tell me anything. I’m a lucky guesser.”

  “What do you offer, Lovejoy?”

  “One per cent of your last valuation, paid into an account I shall name. Thereafter, one per cent of all your purchases of sales, same destination.”

  “And you’ll do what in exchange?”

  “I’ll tell you of three high-buy fakes, international market.”

  He considered that. “How do you know this?”

  “That’s for sale. And their location. And who paid what.”

  “As facts?”

  We settled finally. I declined his offer of a meal, though it hurt. By then he’d provided copies of the Mortdex Collection valuation. I promised him I’d have it checked by auditors who’d visit within the day, whereupon the naughty Mr Verbane produced a different sheaf of printouts. Managers of private collections are the same the world over.

  He stayed me as I made to leave, reminding me of the promise.

  “Oh, yes. Antiques.” I’d already worked out what he deserved. “The Khmer art sculptures, South-East Asia. Remember the November sales?”

  “Yes.” He was a-quiver, almost as if he’d bought a sandstone Buddha. “I remember.”

  I bet you do, you poor sod, I thought. “Several were fake, Mr Verbane.”

  He licked his lips. A girl called an invitation to come and join them. He quietened her with a snarl.

  “That sandstone thing’s recent, made in Thailand. Mr Sunkinueng who was Phnom Penh Museum curator —”

  “But the reputation of Sotheby…” He was giddy. I’d have felt almost sorry for him, except I didn’t.

  “Reputations are made for breaking. That four-armed god sitting on a lion, from Angkor Wat, 1200 AD. bought by a famous American collector.” I looked about at the lovely countryside. “Who lived hereabouts.”

  “Fake?” he whispered. His lips were blue.

  “Modern fake,” I said cheerfully.

  “You said you’d tell me something I could…”

  “Make on? Very well.” I thought a bit, as if I hadn’t already made up my mind. “You’re rivals to the Getty Museum in California, right? Well, their male Kouros statue from Greece is said to be two thousand years old—by kind friends with a vested interest.”

  He brightened, as they all do at the grief of rivals. “But its attribution is doubtful?”

  “Don’t ask me. Ask Giuseppe Cellino—he’ll tell you exactly how it was peddled round every antiques museum and gallery in the known world by a Swiss dealer for three years. He has all the addresses, times, dates. Don’t say I sent you.”

  Smiles and grief were still competing on his face when we drove away.

  “Lovejoy?” Tye said as our limo paused at the entrance of
the imposing estate. “How much of all that was true?”

  “All of it, Tye,” I said sadly. “All.”

  He was driving, taking us carefully out into the two-laner. “Then how come these big experts don’t know from fakes? That Sotheby Gallery place is supposed to be —”

  “Tye,” I said, watching the great house recede into the distance. “There’s enough of us already in. Don’t you start, okay?”

  “Capeesh, boss.”

  At the airport while Tye and his goons saw to the plane, bags, paid off the saloon car, I phoned news of the hack to Gina. Then phoned Prunella to get moving. I never carry a watch, but checked the time and reckoned Magda and Zole should be about halfway to my next destination. It’d be risky for her, but that’s what women are for.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  « ^ »

  WE were airborne in an hour. Joker and his ambling mate Smith cleared us for landing in Chicago by dusk. I felt I’d been travelling for years. Tye’s two goons were still uncommunicative, the air hostess Ellie of amphibian responsiveness.

  Tye still hadn’t mentioned why one of our tame vigilantes hadn’t travelled with us to Mr Mortdex’s ranch. Or why we’d been followed there and back, by a separate saloon motor that kept vanishing and reappearing. It even changed its colour once. I felt less friendly towards Tye now, because I was doing the business as well as anyone could, right?

  “Tye,” I said over a meal of surreal splendour—Ellie ignored compliments— “I have a secrecy problem.”

  He didn’t quite stiffen, but he was expecting Lovejoy Deception Hour. “What things?” he asked. All his food came fried. I’d never met a bloke like him for demanding fried grub.

  “It’s between ourselves, okay?” I cleared my throat. “You know Prunella? She’s flying to Chicago, should be there now. I told her to book us in, er, together.”

  He nodded, methodical with his fried burger slab thing, inch by square inch, regular as a metronome. His dining habits were admirable.

  “So? She’s secretary, right? Doing her job.”

  “No, Tye,” I explained. “She and I, er… in Manhattan last night. I’ve said she should meet us. I’ll need a little time for a special… conference.”

  “You n’her?” He swigged wine, not breaking his masticating rhythm. “You got it, Lovejoy.” He paused. Three squares of burger accumulated on his plate. I realized he was laughing, possibly an alltime first. “S’long as I know you isn’t going any place.” Al and Shelt laughed along.

  I couldn’t get the hang of all that water. There were even ships on the damned thing. I’d thought we were a million miles inland.

  “Where are we, love?”

  Prunella had a map out in a flash, dropping notes and pencils like a sower going forth to sow.

  “The Great Lakes, Lovejoy.”

  I looked into the darkness. It was illuminated by a trillion lights, like a city of crystal on a gleaming shore. I shivered. Prunella squeaked I must be cold. I just caught her from upping the thermostat to critical. You’ve never met anything like the heat of an American hotel.

  “You know what’s wrong, Prunella? Your country’s just too big, too beautiful, too everything.”

  “I’m pleased you like it, Lovejoy. But we’re a little short on history. I’ve heard of your lovely old buildings, traditions —”

  I wanted to prove to Tye that we were ensconced in snuggery and up to no good. I chose my time carefully to open the envelope she’d collected from the airport. It contained the first of Easy Boyson’s Sherlock forgeries, just the one page but pretty good. I was proud of him. I concealed it in my folder, told Prunella not to answer the door until I got back, and wore myself out descending the hotel stairs.

  A taxi took me from the harbourside to O’Hare International Airport. I was glad to see the end of all that water in the non-dark dark. I’m only used to lakes you can see across.

  Magda and Zole were waiting in a nosh bar. I was delighted to see them. Zole was having some sort of row with the manager over a gaming machine he claimed was rigged. Magda was pale and washed out. She looked smart in her new coat and shoes, matching accessories.

  “I’m not used to this, Lovejoy. I done as you said.”

  “Well did, love.” She’d never been out of New York before.

  Zole came and smouldered, eyeing the one-arm bandits. “Hey, Lovejoy. All Chicago’s fixed.”

  “Hey, Zole ma man,” I said. He sneered, joined us. “You got a broad, Lovejoy? Or you aim’t’ be stickin’ Magda?”

  I’d almost forgotten how to have a headache without Zole around.

  “Play the machines, Zole.” I gave him all my change. He sauntered away, hands in his pockets, head on the swivel.

  Magda passed me her envelope. I took it.

  “Ta, love. This address is a theme park, whatever that is. There’s a big exhibition of antiques in a barn. Houses, rooms done up like in the nineteenth century. When Zole steals the item I’ve written down, make sure he walks within a few feet of me, okay? On his way out. Stay with him, and don’t steal anything yourself.”

  “Will we be all right, Lovejoy?” She hesitated, glanced towards the counter where Zole was having a heated exchange about the food prices. “Only, you heard about our fire?”

  “Fire?” I went cold.

  “The Benidormo. An hour after we left like you sent round, your room blew a firestorm. Ours went too. A couple’s hurt bad. A man died in the stairwell, burned terrible.”

  “The hotel? My room?” No wonder she looked pale.

  “I’m sheet scared, Lovejoy. Fires, guns. I had all that crap, y’know?”

  “You won’t be, love,” I said, thinking of being followed at Mortdex’s.

  “I seed it on the news at the airport. Not Zole.”

  I passed her some money. “Love, any time you want to cut out, you can. But I still want your help. Book your flight soon as I leave. Tell Zote nothing except that I want him to steal the antique as a game, to…” I’d worked the phrase out “… to put the bite on somebody.”

  She nodded. She’d had her hair done. I said she looked pretty, which made her go hard and call me stupid.

  Zole, tact personified, helped matters along by telling Magda she should lay me quick and we could get back to the Big Apple. I stopped Zole trying to filch a woman’s handbag from a table as we left.

  “Give my regards to Joe and, er, Gertrude,” I said, bussing Magda a so-long in the main concourse.

  “You makin’ them up, Lovejoy?” the little nerk demanded.

  “Yes, Zole,” I told him, to shut the little bugger up. We exchanged no further information.

  The hotel stairs were a hell of a climb. Prunella welcomed me with relief. We made mutual smiles until sleep rewarded us with oblivion.

  WE flew over Illinois in broad daylight, Iowa, into Omaha with me breathless at the spectacle. I thought: This nation had to invent theme parks? It’s one great glorious kaleidoscope. Maybe paradise is already down here, and we’re so busy moaning and grumbling that we can’t believe our own eyes.

  With Prunella primly distancing herself from me—I’d agreed to her stern warning that we should not behave as if there was Something Between Us—the flight map showed names I couldn’t honestly believe in. Manchester and Cambridge and Dedham, I’d accept those. And Delhi and Persia and Macedonia I’d take on trust.

  “But Hiawatha?” I asked Tye. “Peoria? Des Moines? Oskaloosa? Sioux City? Come on, mate. Who’s making them up?”

  Prunella’s secretarial training came to the rescue. She had an hour’s lecture on name-lore programmed deeply within, and was still explaining why Skunk River was not a myth when we separated at the airport.

  The helicopter seemed so small. I’d only ever been in one before, and that under atrocious circumstances. I still get the shakes, and was silent for the whole flight, a little over an hour. I always keep wondering why they don’t strap a huge parachute to the bloody things, in case its whirring blades spi
n off.

  We landed beyond a small town that called itself a city, and were driven through woodland and glades, emerging onto a cliffy outlook over a river. You’d call it splendid, if you like countryside. The greeting I got I’d have called splendid too, if I liked phony.

  “Preston Gullenbenkian,” the mighty orator intoned, fixing me with an intent beam. “I’m yours in the service of the Lord of Hosts.”

  “I’m Lovejoy, Reverend,” I said, feeling inadequate, like I’d met Wesley. “You received our —”

  Gullenbenkian intoned reverently, as if I was a gospel, “Your word was heard, Lovejoy. And acted upon.” He paused, hand on his heart. “It’s my way. I want you to know that.”

  We were outside a pile—as in vast unbelievable palace. I’d thought Blenheim was still in the UK, but here was its isomer overlooking that panoramic view.

  “The mighty Missouri, Lovejoy.” He raised his eyes to Heaven. “We must give thanks to the Lord for all His generosity.” He dashed off a quick prayer.

  I dither in the presence of holiness. He was a tall, suntanned man, the sort who always get lead parts in Westerns. But his gear was perfect, his teeth glittering, his skin oiled and shining.

  “And it’s simple Prez, Lovejoy,” he resumed, leading me up the great straight drive. “Sure, I’m in holy orders. But that doesn’t entitle a humble, ordinary man to seize on outmoded elitisms.”

  “That’s good of you, Prez.”

  He shot me a glance, casually acknowledged several youngsters loitering about in a not-so-aim less manner. Lads and lasses, they were long-haired, in sun specs. Two of them had rifles. Whatever he wasn’t, Gullenbenkian was astute.

  “Necessary, Lovejoy. Your people wait here.”

  “Tye, please. See your pal gets enough peanuts.”

  Tye and Al stood watching as the gospeller and I trod to the verandah. I daresay Tye had planted some sort of recording gadget on me this time, expecting this. Better if he had, so it wouldn’t just be my word against anyone else’s.

  “What hospitality may I offer you, Lovejoy? Not often I audience somebody from your neck of the woods.” He laughed, a practised, all-embracing laugh. I’d always thought only monarchs and popes gave audiences.