The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

  “I’ll fucking—”

  “No, Logie.” Big John flicked a finger and I was thrust onto an upright chair. Sundry nerks placed one for John. He sat at me, rather than opposite, staring into me with curiosity.

  "Clayton? Is it you’s pally with Clayton now, Lovejoy?” ‘‘No, John. But he came and shambled my cottage, ashed my Ruby. Threatened to kill my budgies, then my apprentice.”

  John snapped fingers for information, eyes still on me. Logie responded. “His apprentice is a bird, Lydia. You’ve seen her, John. Singing in the choir. Churchgoer, St. James protestant. Honest, youngish. Nice enough.” He snorted. “Thinks Lovejoy’s a reprobate, low life.”

  Big John nodded approvingly at all this biography, especially the churchgoing bit. “Indeed. A bonny lass. Always looks worried.” He eyed me some more. “And well she might, eh?”

  “And then me, John. Ben said.”

  "If what?”

  “If I burgled anywhere. For anybody.”

  His eyes were blue, his face square, fair. He always looks affable, but then so did Genghis Khan. “He know you’ve done a little for me, Lovejoy?”

  “Dunno, John. He said nothing.”

  His fingers snapped once. Logie advanced, penitential. “Not heard anything, John. Last Clayton did was a big buy at the Nottinghamshire sales. And a load of art nouveau furnishings, Brighton.” Big John turned slightly, looked up at Logie. The bruiser shuffled uneasily. I breathed easier. Somebody else was in trouble. John replaced his attention.

  “Tell, Lovejoy. Everything, mind.”

  “Something’s afoot, John.” I told him I’d been placed under virtual arrest for Sam Shrouder’s death, then for Parson Brown’s disappearance. Ledger and MacAdam I gave a brief but bad press, very satisfying. “I think Ben Clayton’s financing the Russian exhibition at St. Edmundsbury—God knows how or why. But he’s chopped into at least three container loads. Big money. For Yanks, I heard.”

  He silenced me with a palm to ponder. It took five minutes. I fidgeted slightly, stilled when Logie raised an eyebrow.

  Then, “Go on, Lovejoy.”

  “He said I wasn’t to visit the St. Edmundsbury exhibition, not even get a catalog. Bought from some old Russki countess. My

  apprentice got one, only doing her job, routine like. He did me over for disobedience. Seg. Probably scared I'd wrong-foot his picture.”

  "Logie. I’m hearing all this for the first time.”

  Logie paled, visibly shrank a few cubic feet. “Yes, John. But—”

  “Picture, Lovejoy?” Sheehan’s voice had softened, a sign of his terrible anger upping a gear.

  “There’s a film crew doing some cops-and-robbers thing. They hired me. In the story they rob the British Museum.” I pressed on over the hiss of sharp inhalations all around John’s mob. “Not real, y’understand. Only on the pictures.”

  "What’s this to do with Clayton?”

  I had to strain to hear his words, and him only three feet away. Sheer fright set my right leg trembling all on its own, quiveringly hinting to get the hell out of here. “A guess, John. I was scared to ask. But I believe he’s financing the film someway, whole or part. It wasn’t me killed Parson. Nor Sam Shrouder.”

  “Parson’s a dealer,” Logie put in, anxious to win his badges back. "Sam’s a faker—”

  “Lovejoy?” John whispered, choked on anger.

  "Don’t know about Sam,” I said shrilly. “But I feel Ben Clayton or Seg disappeared Parson. Maybe a mistake.” I told him of my custodial bout with MacAdam, the car in the tide off the strood causeway, how the Plod had me marked over some innocent question of a crucifix. “ Y’see, John, I went asking after a cross. Parson’d promised it. His missus phoned him my message. I think somebody was with him when he received it, assumed I meant some crucifix nicked from Clayton’s Russian exhibition. So put Parson out of the way.”

  “Not quite enough, Lovejoy, is it now?”

  So quiet I had to guess the words in the sibilance. “No, John. I think it’s much bigger than all these local goings-on.”

  “Tell me.” Magnanimity showed through. “I’ll not have you cindered for being wrong.”

  “My guess is Ben Clayton’s setting up to do the British Museum, under cover of this film.”

  The world halted. I swore the band, chatter, drinking stopped all over the Eastern Hundreds. Big John breathed in, exhaled a long breath so slow it lasted forever.

  “Why?”

  He meant reasons. “Nowt else’s big enough to go topping people for, John. He’s called in favors, put the elbow on dealers— all to collar container loads. They’re the only big advance payments in antiques at this level. So he needs money. He abducted me, dumped me in the countryside, trying to bubble me for Sam’s murder—then realized he could use me in the movie robbery some way. My apprentice did some delving on the film company. It’s genuine, but on its last legs. The writer’s hopeless, the main assistant’s a druggie, the lead bloke’s a has-been, the heroine's a scatty beginner, the producer’s an aging wonderkid who’s never fulfilled promise . .

  “And what’re you doing in it?”

  “I think I’m now cast as the fall guy—that’s Americanese for somebody set up—”

  “Will you get on, Lovejoy.”

  “Because they hire me in good faith, see? As an antique dealer with maybe some understanding of antique scams. Kindly they ignore any evidence of my shady past. Then they have me along, let me even make up part of the story—having carefully vetoed all twenty-odd storylines their writer’s thought up, only to accept the first rehash one I contribute.”

  “What’re they after?”

  “John,” I said sadly. “Been to the British Museum lately? Nick anything good and you’re in clover—not meaning me, you follow. But film crew’s like a Bedouin caravan—more vehicles, people, boxes, than the parson preached about. The trouble is, I’m not sure what they’ll pinch.”

  “And you’re there to take the blame?”

  “So they think, John. I want out, but Ben Clayton won’t let me. He won’t allow anything to go wrong with the film because it conceals the scam.” I paused, but most crooks are slow thinkers, so I added, “It’s everything to him, you see. With the museum’s staff in his pocket he’ll be the biggest bloke in antiques ever."

  “So he will, so he will.” He rose, stood by the fireplace, clicked his fingers. A filled glass magically appeared in his hand. He sipped thoughtfully. None for poor sweating terrified me, note. "Shit or bust, eh?”

  “That’s as I see it, John.”

  “Would you be seeing any way to spoil his game, now? You being so shrewd and all?” A goon snickered, froze when Big John tilted his head inquiringly.

  “Oh, aye. Easy.” I nodded around at his army to show confidence. “You get your lads to rob a valuable antique from his Russian exhibition, John. That’s the first thing. It’ll make him edgy, flail about, maybe make him goad the filming on, stir him up. It’d publicize his involvement in the Russki show too much for his liking. That’ll show you where his aim really is.”

  “Not bad, Lovejoy.” He smiled kindly. “So do it.”

  “Me?” I was aghast, terrified. “Please, John. Ben’ll kill me. Please. Let your lads—”

  “Do it, Lovejoy. And soon.” He was so pleased he rubbed his hands. The goons also rubbed theirs. “Want a drink?”

  “Ta, John,” I said as shakily as I could, still pretending sheer terror, almost overacting. Honestly, these crooks. Worse than the Old Bill for slowness. I thought we’d never get there. Masterminds of the bloody obvious.

  I

  don’t believe this.”

  “Ballooning’s perfectly safe, Lovejoy.”

  “Not with me in a bloody flying basket.”

  “You told me to arrange it.”

  “But not with me inside.”

  We were on a large field. Cars were parked nearby, rows on meadow. Assorted lunatics milled about huge—and I mean mega- huge—multicolor
ed sacks on the grass. Each one needed a score of blokes to hold the damned things down. Two had already flown, ascending with elongated grace into the heavens to applause, one pair of daredevils per wicker. Daft. The balloons looked colorful but life-threatening. Lydia was furious because I refused to fly. A cretinoid called Dave was equally disappointed. I’d met him once before.

  “What’s the matter, Lovejoy?” He was mystified, congenitally unable to see why any normal bloke wouldn’t want to dangle perilously in a trug strung at umpteen zillion feet with no parachute. Maniacs don’t change.

  “This sport’s the matter. Go if you like, but don’t ask me." She was exasperated. “Our sole purpose was to give you the actual encounter, Lovejoy. The dedicated writer experiences what he writes about.”

  Does he indeed. "Let Max.”

  Dave’s mates, lunatics all, laughed as I walked off, Lydia trotting after, reproaching furiously. She’d borrowed her mother’s car for our trek into literary creativity. Max was just emerging from his motor, a disheveled but dedicated writer if ever I saw one.

  "Hello, Lovejoy. I read your ideas outline. Did the balloonists say it was practicable?”

  “Yes, Max.” I spoke out, avoiding Lydia’s eye. “They’re thrilled. They wanted to show me the practical details, but I’ve given you pride of place.”

  “Honestly?” he said. "Really?”

  "Well, it’s more important that you have the living creative experience, Max. I’d really like to go, but you’re the one who has to cope with the stunt arranger.”

  “Lovejoy, that’s really decent of you.” He clasped my hand, soulful. "I’ll dedicate my screenplay to you. You’re terrific. And generous.”

  He went toward the balloons on the grass, the gas jets burning hot air. Two were sleeping vertically, their brilliant hues in the weak sunlight making gaudy silk cathedrals. Lydia came, narked and angry.

  "That was despicable, Lovejoy. Pretending—"

  “Look, Lydia.” I halted, held both her hands. She snatched them away, glancing about in case any stray balloonists had noticed this unbridled sex play. “What was in your notebook?”

  “About the film company? It is almost defunct.”

  “Go on.”

  “It desperately needs a major success during this fiscal year. Its financial resources are virtually nil.”

  “And Max?”

  “My film industry informants are mystified as to why he was chosen. He is regarded as a writer of minimum inventiveness,

  mediocre talent. Especially with this film being the Lake Bayon people’s possible swan song.”

  “So. How can I best help Max?” I opened her passenger door and got in, wound down the window and spoke with sorrow. “I’ll tell you, Lydia. By helping Max. Giving him every chance.” “Lovejoy," she tried, but I spoke on.

  “Which means giving him my place in that balloon, Lydia. I could have enjoyed myself, been self-indulgent. But no.” “Lovejoy. Perhaps I was hasty—”

  “No.” I nearly did a stage sob but decided that was probably going over the top so maintained a low intense voice. “No, Lydia. You’re determined to see only the worst in me. So be it.”

  By Maldon she was apologizing, saying she was only concerned to see me higher in both our esteems, trala. On the whole I was pretty gracious, finally forgiving her and being really pleased with myself. Especially when thinking of nerk Max in that frigging balloon up in the stratosphere. One litde bit of help escaped, thank God.

  The building society was open when we reached town. Lydia pulled in by the war memorial.

  “Could you do an errand, love?”

  "Yes, Lovejoy.”

  "The deeds of my cottage are in the Camudonum Building Society. I need them withdrawn. I’m making a will at last. The lawyer needs to, er, initial them.”

  "Oh!” Her hands flew to her face. “There’s nothing—?” “No, love. Only ...” I downcast my gaze, tried to blush, but you can never manage the damned thing when you want. “I have someone in mind to leave my cottage to. Only foolish sentiment, Lydia. But since you and I are so close—”

  “Lovejoy! You mustn’t think of it!”

  “I’ll feel so much better. Please.”

  "Very well. But I think this whole thing needs discussion, before such personal committal . . et cetera.

  “I promise. But get a move on. They close in an hour. Ask

  for Phoebe, undermanageress.” She’d better. It was old Cranfield’s day off, her obsessional old boss. “I’ll wait. I’ve a phone call to make. I want to commiserate with Mrs. Brown. I’m really worried about her.”

  "How kind, Lovejoy. Please convey my regards.”

  Luckily I got Phoebe third go, an alltime record for East Anglia’s degenerate phone network.

  “Phoebe? Lovejoy. I need my deeds for half an hour, please. My lawyer’s calling for them. Miss Lydia.”

  Phoebe’s normally pliable, but she’d obviously heard of my current woes. “Lovejoy. Your cottage deeds are in entail because of that illicit triple mortgage. There’s a fraud claim—”

  "For Christ’s sake!” I yelled. Everybody’s got suspicions like an epidemic. “Phoebe, on my knees. Ten minutes, and I’ll have them back in your hand. Honest.” I sank to a wheedle. “Look, love. I know I’m not always straight. But deception’s for others, love. Not for you and me, Phoebe. Not after . .

  “All right, Lovejoy. You can borrow them. Thirty minutes. Lydia, you said?”

  Five minutes later Lydia came with the deeds, all pleased. “Did you get through, Lovejoy?”

  “Eh?” I was shocked for a moment. Had she realized?

  "Mrs. Brown.”

  "Oh. Yes. She said thanks for your, er, felicitations. Right, love. Drop those deeds in at Hymie’s workshed. You know it, Wyre Street. And this other envelope.” It contained the Ruby’s logbook. “I’ve to call at Hammer’s—”

  She paused. I sensed propriety. “Hymie the goldsmith?” “Yes, love.” I blinked innocence. “I’ve changed lawyers. To his nephew. The lad’s just qualified from law school. What little business I can put his way won’t help much, but—”

  “Lovejoy.” She stood there on the pavement, radiant, brimming with happiness. “Sometimes I’m quite moved. Of course I shall.”

  Bashfully I waved her off into the traffic. I was really moved myself. After all, helping some poor struggling nephew, worrying about Winnie Brown, altering my nonexistent will because of fondness for my apprentice—they all revealed a ton of deep deep compassion.

  For a county without much rock in its basic flooring, East Anglia’s got quite a team of specialists in geology, archeology, soil merchants. It’s not all the consequence of North Sea oil exploration. Hammer’s one of these. He’s a grave-digger, as antique dealers call archeologists who specialize in burials. A long, thin, sandy-haired bloke in cotton duck trousers and bush shirt, he’s in a permanent state of readiness for a quick safari. I found him at a ring burial out beyond Ardleigh. A middle-aged bird from the castle staff gave me a lift. You approach digs quietly and don’t interrupt, so for a while I stood watching. There were three of them digging under a crude tarpaulin canopy. Hammer, a nice plump woman with Lady Godiva hair that kept falling into her dug bit, and a gnarled crone sweeping soil from a stone. Ring burials abound hereabouts. Farmers are forever turning them up. The great hope is of course a gold cache, Celtic tores or the like from some ancient British tribal kings.

  Eventually Hammer looked up, smiled, stopped work.

  “Cymbeline at last, Hammer?” Everybody’s number one contender for spiritual bliss is King Cymbeline. Local folk dream of finding his tomb like the Holy Grail. He’d died just before Claudius the God came conquering.

  “Wish it was. Some minor king, probably early Roman.”

  “Anything?”

  “A few artifacts, nothing much.”

  “Better luck next time.” We went and stood apart. "Celtic crosses, Hammer. What if I wanted one?”

  He stared over the
fields. Six miles off is the sea. Celtic crosses are big monoliths carved in early Christian times. They’re a feature of the north, the west, Ireland.

  “You never ask anything easy, Lovejoy.”

  “Don't grumble, Hammer. I only want to hire it, not sell, not buy.”

  Now he stared at me astonished. “You joking, Lovejoy?”

  "There’s no jokes in antiques, Hammer,” I said patiently. “A genuine ancient Celtic cross, carved, just discovered, embedded in rock.”

  “Well, they usually weren’t—’’

  “I know. But this one must be. A big chunk of granite, or whatever that solid stone is. Can you?"

  “Does the insertion have to be authentic, or can I marry the cross to any piece of granite?”

  “Do what you like. And hollow it out.” I waited, letting it sink in. “The base rock, not the cross.”

  “How hollow?” Now he was worried. “Those stone crosses were landmarks, Lovejoy, hell of a size. You can’t just stick one upright in a jam jar.”

  “I did say a big chunk, Hammer."

  “How big, exactly?"

  Nowt but questions, these scientists. “Big enough to hold a man, crouching.” I didn’t say or a titch standing. “With an exit latched from the inside.”

  “Here, Lovejoy. If you’re up to something—”

  “It’s for a film. You haven’t heard? I’m retained . . He listened. I suggested he phone Ray Meese at the film studios if doubt lingered. His worry transmuted to entrancement. Mentioning the movies is our modern philosopher’s stone.

  “And it really will be in the final picture?"

  “Cert, Hammer. So it must look right. Weight it with a thick lead shell inside or something. And don’t give the game away. Keep mum. A rival film company would give anything to hear the plot."

  “I understand, Lovejoy. Complete secrecy. Now, how big’s the cavity, did you say?”

  I held my hand at Three Wheel Archie’s fullest height. “That big.”