By four in the morning I’d found the sort of man I was looking for. I put on the television news channel for an update. Quickly I decided I’d move in two stages. I made a transatlantic call to tell a retired Major Lister in Rutland exactly how I wanted him to have his photo taken. I told him exactly what to do and why. I wanted them at the office of a multi-billionaire who was in deep trouble. Then I rested, asking to be roused at six o’clock.
Magda returned our car, and I spent three hours in the splendid public library while she and Zole rested. I’d been on tenterhooks in case either had got caught or didn’t show up, or simply vanished having decided they’d had enough of me as a non-paying passenger. They should have done. I’d have ditched them if I’d had half a chance.
She booked us on different flights from Hartsfield Atlanta, she and Zole to Los Angeles, me to New York. It was an awkward leave-taking. She checked me over as if I was a child going to a new school, spotless shirt, briefcase, suit pressed, shoes glittering, tie sober yet crisp.
“Your hair never stay down, Lovejoy?”
“Not really.” I was embarrassed. She’d gone to so much trouble.
“You know to get them to radio ahead?”
“Yes, ta. I’ve got the list, love.”
“If you need something doing Lovejoy, remember you can hire. You’re in Big A.”
“I’m learning, Magda. And thanks. See you in LA.”
“Take care, honey.”
I went red. I’d never been called honey before, not properly.
“And you, love. You too, Zole.”
“Here, Lovejoy.” He gave me what looked like a pencil case. I waved them through the gate, patting Sherman to show I wasn’t scared and he was to guard them until we met up.
Heading for my boarding gate, I opened Zole’s present. It was a throwing knife. I dropped the bloodcurdling implement into the litter bin. The flight was on time at New York.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
« ^ »
I’VE HEARD of America.” Major Lister had ogled the skyline all the way from the airport. He made the announcement as a concession to fashion. “Truly amazing.”
We’d rehearsed his part until we were both word perfect. He had the photograph, silver framed, and a parchment citation, sealing wax, everything. I was really proud of the craftsman I’d sent him to.
“Vertigo ask much?” I worried uneasily.
“He says you still owe him. Some lady in Morton.”
“I’ll pay.” She’d been keen to have a bonfire of all her possessions, in order to sell them. I’d fixed it for her, with a little bit of help from my friends. We call it a tinder job in the trade. (A tragic house fire loses you all your precious antiques, only it’s fakes which get crisped, see? You sell the untraceable genuine antiques at some far-flung auction, and get the insurance as a bonus). I’d taken three months to fake all her stuff. I’d worked like a dog. Vertigo had done three marvellous portraits.
“This gentleman expecting us, Lovejoy?”
“Aye. It may only be his assistants, but it’ll be as useful.”
Maynooth Tower was the great Thomas Maynooth’s gift to the great city of New York—his phraseology, nobody else’s. We gave John Lister’s name, and were ushered up to the upper triplex where Maynooth’s think tank never closed. Its beacons shone ceaselessly to inform the universe of Tommy Dynamite’s unflagging zeal in quest of the American dream.
A smoothie of each sex welcomed us, with clones. Opulence ruled. I felt positively shoddy, but then I always do. John Lister’s bearing carried him through, spick and span.
“This is Major Lister,” I explained. “Rutland Orphanage. I called you earlier.”
The lead lass shook hands with aggression-filled doubt. The others stood aloof with threat.
“We have no record of the appointment, Major Lister. Nor of a contribution from Mr Maynooth to your orphanage. Also, Mr Maynooth’s real busy right now and —”
“The citation, Wilkins,” John commanded. I leapt to obey. “Miss, will you let me conduct the ceremony here? We fully comprehend. Mr Maynooth’s time is of the essence.”
“Ceremony?” The clones swapped glances.
“Of thanks. I have a citation, and a small acknowledgement of Mr Maynooth’s generosity. It saved our orphanage.”
Lister cleared his throat, conducted the head lady from behind her desk, produced the scroll.
“In the name of the Rutland Orphanage, of Maltan Lees, in testimony of the generosity of —”
“Hold it, please.”
An anxious gent disappeared from the anteroom. We waited. It took two minutes, and we were ushered into an office as broad as the bridge of an ocean liner. The whole of Manhattan was spread out before us. We actually looked down on skyscrapers. My head swam.
The man at the desk rose. Fortyish, smooth and easy, with eyes that had once known humour, but no longer. He shook our hands. I deferred to Major Lister. We explained our purpose, Maynooth nodding and listening. Then he lit a cigar, took three rapid puffs, extinguished it with regret into an ashtray piled with enormous remnants of aborted smokes. He waved his aides out, and we were alone.
“Wilkins?” he asked me directly. I was standing near Lister’s chair.
“That’s me.”
He said no more for quite a few minutes. During them he extracted and read the citation. Then he examined the photograph, carefully perusing the dates on the reverse.
“What do you get out of this, Wilkins?” he asked eventually. His calm was a delight to see. I glowed with admiration of America and all her great businessmen. Hardly a single clue, and he susses out every nuance of the baffling problem instantly. Great.
“A contribution from others, Mr Maynooth.”
“You putting me on?”
“No, Mr Maynooth.
He swung his chair, practising, perhaps never having done it before. He wasn’t in showbusiness, this genius.
“Nothing would be easier than for me to call in the photographers, pics with you presenting the scroll. The publicity would do me a barrel of favours, I can tell you.” He eyed me.
He laughed mirthlessly, quoted, “Maynooth Marchs into Bimbo Limbo.” That, and his wealth, were why I’d chosen him. A pious ex-seminarian suddenly exposed as a fund funster with a secret taste for sexual acrobatics was too good to miss.”
He stayed my comment with a hand, did his non-smoking smoke trick, gazed longingly into the ashtray.
“Bastard doctors,” he said. I agreed, nodding with conviction. “I’m subjected to the most scurrilous attacks, lawsuits, abuse, since my, uh, personal philosophy became public. It’s a feeding frenzy. Every moral vigilante group on the East Coast’s after my blood.”
He tapped with a pencil, snapped it, dropped it anywhere. He hadn’t looked away from me.
“Major Lister’s orphanage is legit, right?”
“Correct, Mr Maynooth.”
“How much did I donate?” he asked wrily.
I went red. I’d forgotten what I’d said for Vertigo to put on the scroll. “I think twenty thousand.”
“The columns’ll claim it’s a put-up, by my own publicity people.”
“They’d be proved wrong by hard independent evidence, Mr Maynooth. Major Lister’s certificate acknowledges receipt of your generosity a year ago, before any opprobrium.”
He mused. “This out of the goodness of your heart?
His mind was too slick to flannel. “Not really. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try something else, somewhere else. Don’t worry. We’ll reveal nothing. Nobody knows we’re here. Major Lister here’ll vouch for me.”
Silence for a moment, while he grew angry with something out of view. “You know what those bastards are doing right now? Running a ’cking cartoon about me! I’m suing, but…”
“My mate’s come a long way,” I said to soothe him. I didn’t want him mad. “Might as well call in your tame city clickers and get your cent’s worth, eh?”
“Twenty th
ousand’s nothing. You can have it anyway. The morality brigades are opposing my casino, threatening to close me even in N’YorkP
“Could they?” I was interested.
“They can damn well slow me down. This is America.”
“They’ll not close you, Mr Maynooth. Not after what happens next.”
I waited while he re-ran the words. “This is the bite, huh? The bite that costs nothing?”
Honestly, I felt quite sorry for him. Nobody likes to have their genital activities plastered over every tabloid and screen, to the howls of enemies.
“You need to prove anew that you can organize your businesses and casinos in a law-abiding manner.” I felt eloquence effervescing with the glee of fraud. “Difficult when the moral battalions besiege Maynooth Towers. It has to be major evidence.”
“Like what? I’ve every security agency in the country on my payrolls and it’s not enough.”
“Parts of New York are a mess, Mr Maynooth. Your Taxi and Limo Commission alone tries four hundred taxi-driver offenders a day for assault and abuse of passengers. The killings, muggings, the crime—”
“Gimme a break. It’s not my doing.”
“Supposing you halted all crime in one area for a whole twenty-four hours? Call it a Law Day.”
“That’s dumb talk, Wilkins. We got police. They try and fail.” He was the sort of bloke I suppose women fall for, handsome and in the prime of life, but in a cleft stick. His affair had suffered more mudslinging than Richard III. He gave in when I said nothing. “You know they were tipping me as a presidential nominee?”
“There’ll be one fewer of those in a couple of days, Mr Maynooth. Work out what you’ll say to the cameras. You’ll be shyly conceding that you’re a secret benefactor, and an anti-crime potentate. You’ll contribute this gesture as goodwill to this great city of yours. Clear your path almost immediately.”
He was still sour about other nominees. “They got that punch-drunk Texan as sellingest contender. And that shifty bastard Brandau. I could lose them any day of the week.”
“I’ll lose you Brandau this week, Mr Maynooth.”
We talked seriously then, with John Lister’s head turning like a Wimbledon regular’s between us. It took a little over an hour. Mr Maynooth gave the orphanage a donation way above his previous year’s mythical donation, following which his minions were summoned to round up the media photographers. I quietly faded. They could do without my picture.
As John left for the airport, dollars winging ahead of him to Rutland, I went to see Busman, to ask a favour and start negotiating a price for Thomas Maynooth’s new invention, a piece of peace in Manhattan. I needed success now.
THERE’S that theory of success, isn’t there—confidence makes you win. Lose heart, and you’ve lost no matter how big your army.
I took a taxi down Eighth Avenue, and walked into the bus terminal. It was getting on for six, the day drawing in. Maybe it was tiredness, maybe from being away from antiques so long, but I was so really down. At the terminal I had a quick coffee while I wondered what I’d do if I failed with Busman. Should I try to see Sophie? But maybe she too thought I was dead. Or Gina? Too risky—I’d have a fatal visit from Tye. Rose? At least she was innocent of all the mayhem. I’d maybe look her up when it was over.
Nothing for it. I was uneasy, spinning out the coffee because it felt safer. I felt unshaven, soiled, tired, almost doomed from dispirit. I went into the maelstrom of travellers to seek Busman.
A small cluster of youths marauding on the outskirts of a passenger group seemed the most promising. I went up to them and said Busman had sent for me. They didn’t mug me, just directed me into the concrete warren. I plodded down, feeling the loneliest figure on earth.
The atmosphere had gone, somehow. I walked the tunnels, asking loudly at every molestation for Busman, telling I was sent for, that Busman wanted to see me. Whatever the previous impression I’d had of this subterranean dump, now it was sickly, sordid. The mystique had gone. What had seemed a strange pervading smell had become a fetid stench. The walls were smeared offal slabs. The perverts and prostitutes mauling in corners, the junkies rubbing bloodstained sleeves, the muggers brawling over thieved wallets had once seemed exotic derangements. Now they were a mess of degradation. I ploughed on, saying loudly I was to see Busman and Trazz.
A Flash Harry emerged from nowhere, came along with me the last few airless corridors, telling me stories of problems they’d had with police lately. I said sure and yeah.
The big control place was shoddier than I remembered, strewn with waste paper, more crowded, more smoke and screens but now a dungeon-like tomb. Busman was there, hearty and welcoming. Trazz came creaking up aslant, doing a laugh of surprise, tsss-tssss.
“Lovejoy, ain’t it? You made it back to the Apple.”
“Hello, Trazz.” I gave Busman my hand. He took it with more of a practised lean than he had once before. A politician’s grip now, but still friendly.
“Wotcher, Busman.”
“You been away, Lovejoy.”
“Bit of a holiday.”
We did some word sparring. He unbent a little more, laughing properly and telling me stories of his activities in the terminal. I eased too, thinking I was just tired, imagining things. Trazz went to check some of the screens’ scrutineers.
“Busman. I came with a proposition.”
“I thought, Lovejoy.” The big man beamed. “I can’t agree outright. Gotta warn you.”
“I understand. Could you stifle all the crime here, for twenty-four hours?”
He fanned himself slowly in astonishment. We were at his desk. No phones, I noticed. Everybody else seemed to have several. I gave him time to work it out. Slowly he shook his head, regret uppermost.
“You askin’ me to throw a fortune, Lovejoy? Ma money comes in steady, fourteen scams. In N’York scams is business. Halt business, ma people suffer.”
“Suffer how, Busman?”
“No money, that’s how. They pay breath, make deals, pay the vig on loans, up cuts, things you never even heard of, Lovejoy. They gotta work, or I displeased.” He chuckled.
“If they didn’t work a day, Busman. Got free paid instead?”
He whistled, thinking fast. “You know how much that’d cost, boah?”
He’d never called me boy before. It had an alien sound.
“The protection for a block of real estate’s tenth of the annual rent. A ten-million dollar rental, they pay some syndicate a million?”
“Right.” He swung in his chair, finally put his feet up, like great boats. “I get five cents on every took dollar, Lovejoy.”
“That, then. Plus what your others’d need?”
“This real?” he asked, figuring as he went.
“Depends on the price, Busman. The man might well be the big P before long.”
He called Trazz, They talked out of earshot, made phone calls, got a girl to work a computer for a while. Then he returned, giving me his new and disturbing beam.
“You got it, Lovejoy. Midnight to midnight, in three hours.”
“From now?” That shook me. I hadn’t realized it would happen so fast. I took the paper on which the girl had written the sum, seven figures. I gulped, nodded, said the deal was probably on.
We shook. I was to phone a number in a few minutes. I was given the same Flash Harry guide, and left.
But something then worried me more than it should. As I turned,
reflection move. It was Busman’s head, swivelling as he looked at Trazz. He gave a shrug and a nod combined, turning his palm upwards, thumb out. An odd gesture, it seemed out of character, macabre. Yet when I turned to wave goodbye from the door, Busman was beaming in my general direction and gave me a wave. Trazz, shuffling and angled, grinned after me with the grin of a cadaver. I didn’t shiver. I walked away from my friends, just managing not to break into a run.
The escort got me safely to the street. I phoned Mr Maynooth, said it was on, how and where the money sh
ould be paid, and rang off.
Then I really did scarper, like a bat from Hell, into the New York night, not really knowing who was after me but travelling at speed in case I found out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
« ^ »
THERE’S a vital difference between being a tourist and being in your own town. That difference is a bed, nothing more, nothing less.
A tourist has nothing, because even the bed, loo, water tap, is rented by the minute. Laying your head down is at somebody else’s behest. But if it’s your own pad, you can tell everybody else to clear off and shut the door on the blighters. The difference is Tourist Tiredness, that state of utter weariness where you get taken for every penny, when you buy stupid things, when con merchants come out to play on the bones of the gullible. Exhaustion’s a grim mutagen. Even the smartest tourist eventually begins trading dollars for dimes, hard currency for zlotniks.
This was me. I was worn out. Not physically, but my instincts were a dud battery.
Friends come in useful about now. But Magda and Zole I’d sent into exile. Bill had died on these very streets. Busman had agreed to a deal, which was likely to start working soon, but somehow I felt under threat. I realized what was bothering me. That gesture I’d seen reflected was the one he’d used before, when telling Trazz to hit Charlie Sarpi’s transgressors. I know finality when I see it. It’s different from dismissal. That there’d been an element of regret in Busman’s manner didn’t allay my tear.
I was in theatreland, none yet loosed, so the nosh bars and stalls weren’t crowded. I found a darker place to sit and stoke up with grub. I’ve been hunted before, and know that food and loos lend alacrity. I kept an eye out for enemies, and thought.
Fredo’s bar might still be open, but so what? Josephus, Della, Fredo, Lil, Jonie—what was I to them? A ily-by-night, that’s what. And I’d flown. That too is the American way, zoom off to a better take. I didn’t know where any of them lived, either.
Sophie Brandau, the one I was really drawn to? Her husband wasn’t likely to welcome me. Melodie van Cordlant might, but I suspected she was too embroiled among the gamesters for me to fling myself on her mercy. Fatty Jim Bethune? I’d done him a favour, but he wouldn’t regard it as such. Orly hated me. Nicko? Jennie? Two unknowables. Was there refuge among the lower orders, like Blanche? Not while she and Tye were shacking up there wasn’t. Rose and the Hawkins family? But Moira was Denzie Brandau’s busty lusty. Rose ran silent and deep. Maybe she hated me too. Chanel was out.
The Great California Game l-14 Page 21
