The Very Last Gambado

by Jonathan Gash

  “Speaking of rope ladders,” Lofty began, “I knew an old bloke once. Said he’d worked on Khartoum. Well, he reckoned that in those long drifty Nile shots, the gunboat was—”

  “Stand still, sir, please,” the museum guard said at the gallery entrance. “Just a quick security check.”

  "Take particular care with this one,” a voice said from inside the doorway. The voice I'd been waiting for.

  “Aye,” I said. “I’ve ten howitzers under my armpit.”

  The museum guard chuckled. “Now, sir. No jokes like that, please. Not until your picture’s over and done with.”

  “Best make sure, Lovejoy, eh?” Seg said, helping to frisk me. He wore a dark blue uniform with Sec-Gard flashes and what seemed a number of black leather belts with pouches. And a holster.

  “If you say so, Seg.”

  The museum guard motioned me through. “Stand inside a moment, sir. Then all go in together. Security in numbers.” Thought it was safety. But I let it go, and did as I was told. Safety had had it for good, for now, for somebody.

  O

  NE more time everybody.”

  “Christ," Lofty groaned. “ How many more ?” We clambered to our feet. It took effort. I was knackered, in no state to fight for my life. The all-black sweat suits were exhausting, even though we were only sitting in the enclosed Armenian exhibition, room thirty-one. I was beginning to hate it. The walls and exhibits were covered by a mock-up paneling with pale, scagged areas showing where we were supposed to have raced in and ripped the precious items away. The genuine exhibition was of course still complete and untouched behind our false panels. So what would be nicked?

  “Extras! Where the hell are the extras?” Vance was in delirium, giggling and talking to himself. Only rarely—when terrified by Ray Meese’s approach—did he descend to earth.

  “Here, here!” Laurie yelped. She lived on nerves, her own as well as Vance's, Lorane’s, Ray's. “They’re here, Vance.”

  "He’ll snort his way to paradise,” Nick prophesied, reaching for his submachine gun. I’d kept mine clutched to myself throughout these rehearsals. Lofty tended to nod off between the walkthroughs. I’d have done the same, but I was frightened.

  “Okay, crooks?” Pal Trevelyan had already issued our weapons, but kept doing repeat checks and getting in the way.

  “Right. Final walk-through.” Laurie hovered, dithering, calling anxiously as we filed into the large manuscript saloon.

  The place was crammed all round its periphery by cameras, lighting equipment, lift gantries. I’d no idea movie gear was so tall. Tubing, scaffolding, floodlights, people even, stood almost as high as the balcony that ran round the saloon. Good old loyal Three Wheel Archie was there, ready to snap into action with my superb Save Lovejoy plan. Friendship, that’s what counts. No question.

  “Right. Out comes Lancelot Lake, bam bam bam upward.” Laurie was reading from some gospel they’d chained her to. “He pauses, okay? Then cries, ‘This way, men.’ Sack in your right hand, Lovejoy. All others left.”

  "Not left?” I changed over.

  “Sixteenth time, Lovejoy,” Vance crooned.

  “Right.” I kept trying it on, but Laurie caught me every time. I’m right-handed, and the lovely gold samovar would be on my right if they left it where it was. “Laurie, love. Wouldn’t it be easier if I—?”

  “Leave off, Lovejoy,” Nick said wearily from in front. “Why the frigging hell d’you keep on?”

  Technicians, assistants, camera people were watching. A camera was rolled with us on rails as we walked. Another rose on its tubular neck, a hunting creature wary at the approach of strangers.

  "Remember this entire sequence is only twenty seconds long. Got it? That’s two-oh seconds. No time to tie your shoelace, okay?”

  "Right, okay.”

  “Nick follows Lancelot oblique ahead, okay? Bam bam! Lofty makes a run dragging his sack, same direction. Bam bam, okay?”

  “Okay.” Lofty moved after his mate, heading for the king’s library’s giant sealed door. “One, two, three.” He counted paces.

  “Lovejoy move left.” Laurie pointed.

  “Do I shoot?”

  “You know you don't, Lovejoy. I’ve told you—wait for Lofty to fall. Keep moving. Bam bam bam. Stef and Saffron up above motionactioijbam and down goes Saffron, blood shock horror, okay? Bam bams, plenty bambam. Lovejoy?” She was sarcy with me because I was walking in slow motion like Nick and Lofty saying nothing.

  “Sorry, Laurie. Bam bam?”

  "No, for Christ’s sake. Bam bam bam. Okay? Exactly alongside that yellow urn thing, shoot up and round it. Okay. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. Yellow urn thing? Hymie'd have a fit.

  It stood a few feet from the long central display case. Vance had finally decided it should be seen by the camera when it swung to follow the action. My heart kept going funny every time we got to this bit, me slowly reaching the central case. My chest did its bonging and each breath took ages. This display case is fourteen feet long maybe, six or so wide, about four tall, and has four glass-covered compartments to each sloping side. In each compartment is a manuscript, contained in a kind of plastic frame. Wired for sound, alarms, atmospheric pressure, humidity, and everything else including passing robbers. I reached it, fifteen of my slow motion paces after emerging from the exhibition doorway.

  Laurie was stepping backward, reading from her clipboard. “Bam bam up there, Stef, okay? Nick dies. Then you, Lofty, bam bam bam and glasscrashshatterkaboom. Props, okay? Leaving Lancelot."

  “And me,” I said anxiously. “And me. Am I right, here?"

  “You’re okay there. At the long display case. Exactly spot X.”

  Spot X. “Bambambam upward?”

  “No, Lovejoy,” wearily. “Like in rehearsal. Security man comes forward. You bambam him. He bambams you. You fall, multo glasscrashshatterkaboom—got that, Props? You know how, Lovejoy. You do it great.”

  I halted motionless to show I agreed I was dead. Spot X.

  “Now Lancelot's alone, smokecrashbambam Candice, you get all that? Where the fuck’s Candice gone? Stef s wounded, disarmed. Lancelot raises his gun, when Saffron . .

  They prattled and paced on, bambamming and pointing. Me on Spot X by the big central display. I leant on the long case, listening casually. I’d got it all pat. Spot X was where I'd fall, then I’d be out of it. That was the plan. I’d be dead, killed. And not merely on film. In the truly-truly real life that mattered only to me.

  Minutes away. I’d be filmed in the ultimate snuff movie, a real killing caught in gruesome reality. A legitimate snuffie. An attempted robbery, genuine—after all, I was a born crook, wasn’t I? A shady antiques dealer with a police record as long as your arm. No wonder Meese had hired me instead of some safe, trustworthy dealer. And when they killed me, there’d be panic over my very real death. As technicians rushed to help and assistants coped with the disaster—once they realized there had been a ghastly real topping among all their let’s-pretend phonies—a very real heist would take place. During the ensuing hullaballoo Ray Meese or somebody close to him would nick what the whole film was about, this central displayed item. No question. It’d be the most famous and talked-about film in movie history. Whatever the artistic demerit, its cackhanded writing and faulty photography, all known prizes would hurtle its way, in this industry where reality and movies collided with an ultimate clang. Truly, it’d be the very last gambado they dream about.

  “Sir,” a vigilant museum guard called from among the forest of equipment. “Please don’t lean on that main display case.”

  “Sorry,” I said, straightening up. It took real effort not to glance down at the Magna Carta. "We done with the walkthrough?”

  “Right. Stations everybody.” Laurie flagged us back. "We'll do a few time runs, then a full rehearsal. Okay?”

  "Okay,” everybody said. “Great.”

  “Right on, man,” I said. Lofty looked surprised and grinned as we returned
to sit in the exhibition room.

  “Getting a taste for this life, Lovejoy?”

  "Never,” I said back. "I think you’re all barmy.” Not me, note. Them.

  But Three Wheel Archie had been watching near a cluster of suited executives chatting with Ray Meese and Lorane. And he’d given me an oh-so-innocent thumbs up sign. Good old loyal safe

  Three Wheel. Now all I’d to suss out was where Seg would be when he made his attempt on my life. After that it’d be up to me to scarper, intact as ever and fleet of foot.

  We did six sprint-throughs before Lancelot Lake, immortal star of stage, screen, and faded B pictures, designed to appear. He did nine runs and insisted on twenty-six changes, which is two point eight script alterations per rehearsal. "The bastard averages ten hysterics a take,” Nick whispered. ‘‘Yesterday’s news trying to be awards material.”

  Between practices I asked Lofty if Lancelot really was no good. ‘‘Him? Unemployable.” He cast about, made sure all the directional mikes pointed elsewhere, whispered, “After that barney over that American jailbait? Did a stretch for it.”

  “Then why did Ray hire him?”

  "Gawd knows. Old Pals Act, they say.”

  Gulp. A jailbird on the team now. Was it him? Him scheduled to be my killer, and psychotic Seg only a decoy? Or was Seg going to blam me, while Lancelot Lake sauntered off with the Magna Carta? I gave up and slumped beside Lofty. Out there in the great saloon Lancelot was posturing and complaining. Ray and Vance were placating. Lorane was ballocking Laurie and somebody called Edna. A girl was sobbing, wailing feeble excuses for some calamity. Nick idled to the door and called could he knock off for a fag, please, was told no. He settled down to watch the egos riot. “It’s getting on for eight, Lovejoy,” he said, “we’ll break for supper soon.”

  “Great, Nick.” Tina brought me an old pen. It was one of Alonzo T. Cross’s famous first—the 1879 Stylographic Pen, precursor of the ballpoint. I wasn’t up to it, I’m afraid. I just told her it was worth a fortune, listened to her fake enthusiasm, and slumped to wait out the remaining few minutes of my life.

  No wonder poor old Sam Shrouder had finally rebelled. Superb faker that he was, he went along with them, all in the interests of honest skillful fakery. But he’d learned that the scam was to nick the Magna Carta itself. And he’d demurred. The rights of everybody in over a hundred nations were established on that ancient slip of scrawled parchment. It only measures one foot by one and a half, but it spelled the beginning of the end for government by whim. The start of mankind’s hope, to live in order. Two-way rights began to take over from one-way obligation.

  Funny how you can miss the obvious. The Articles of the Barons preceded the Magna Carta. They were a kind of rough draft, a let’s-do-it-thus-lads prototype. These Articles are in the first compartment of that long central case. Meese’s plan could have been to nick that priceless parchment, yes indeed. But the world hasn’t got the Articles indelibly into its mind and soul, not like the Great Charter. All right, there are two other “exemplifications,” as historians call these original parchments. One’s in Lincoln, one in Salisbury. But to us mere people, all mere humanity, there’s only one true Magna Carta. And that’s in compartment number four of that long central case in the manuscript saloon, room thirty, the British Museum. Just thinking about it gives your stomach a high dive. How could I have missed it? Easy: You never notice wallpaper much, weather, traffic noise. They’re all normal background. And nothing’s more ingrained in our interstices than that one scrap of wriggly writing. Now, I’m no hero. If it came to the Big McGuffin or me there’d be no question—me first, every time. Lovejoy, masterblind. Idiot. Nerk.

  The arguments outside diminished. Lots of making up took place. Several people suddenly became lovie, honey, darling, instead of slags and cretins. We three came to. Lofty woke, blinked his eyes, replaced his hood. Nick made way. Ray Meese came in, embracing Lancelot Lake.

  “Lancelot. Everything, every breath—it’s you. Did I never admit it, shriek it from the highest Everest? This movie—truly truly—is you, Lancelot. And you, lovie, are this movie.” He faced him, staring soulfully into the actor’s eyes. Tears of emotion streamed down the director’s cheeks. “I kneel in worship, Lancelot baby. As will the universe—did I say universe? The galaxy’s alltime history, as far into the future as man can foresee.”

  God, I thought, appalled, don’t really kneel. But it was only filmspeak, stupidity.

  Lancelot was mollified. “It’s an honor to work with you, Ray. A delight, an education, to serve the man with the vision.” He choked, bravely continued. "I.. . I... respect you, Ray Meese.” There was more, all of it so convincing that I nearly filled up myself, listening to the crud. Ray recovered from his angst and went, blithely calling to his merry band. Lancelot turned, casually nodded to us three nerks. His eyes fixed on me.

  “Hello,” he said, magnanimity time. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Lovejoy,” Nick said. “The antique dealer.”

  “Hi, Lovejoy. Antique dealer, eh? I’ve an antique cupboard needs a bit of restoration. Some veneer stuffs fallen off, flowervase design. You can look at it for me.”

  He really sounded not bent on killing me for the sake of fame. I warmed to the man, glad he hadn’t thought of me as a sacrifice. Well, actors, publicity and all that.

  “Certainly. Where’d you buy it?”

  “Ready for another run?” Laurie called. Vance mumbled. People called for quiet. The prerun shouts began. Where’s the key grip, the forklift controls, straighten that autogantry, hold everything for a second, Christ is there a hair in the gate, all sorts of incomprehensible folklore lingo.

  “Go again. Run through.” Laurie poked her head into the exhibition room, nodded, ducked out of the way. “Go go go!” We lumbered out, dragging our sacks, shouting our bam bam bams. And Three Wheel Archie had gone. Everybody and everything else was still there, same as ever. But my one hope, my loyal pal I’d helped time and again in the past from sheer heartgoodness, had vanished.

  Life being what it is, the instant Three Wheel Archie disappeared our rehearsals became trouble free. We were instantly fast, slick, accurate. We actually used our toy guns, doing it right, too. We sounded like the Battle of the Bulge. I thought we must look really great. And each time things improved, worse luck. Cables untangled, hatreds evaporated, bambams synchronized. And Three Wheel Archie didn’t come back.

  An interruption for feed, smokes, a pee, and we got the final word.

  Our run-throughs were perfect. Next time was the big gambado, and me alone.

  M

  IDNIGHT on the set. Anyone else would have found it magic, even exciting. Me, heading to doom, all I could think of was where’s Three Wheel Archie? That’s what comes of trusting midgets. I’d kill the treacherous little nerk. When he was in a mess over that small 1780 Chippendale Haig & Co. breakfront bookcase, who’d bailed him out? Me. And when—

  “Ready for go. One minute, okayee?” from Laurie and her sweatshirt acolytes.

  “Okayee,” we all said. I peered out, pushing past Lancelot Lake. He’d just been made up again. No Three Wheel. I’d murder the disloyal little sod. Another autocontrol camera gantry was now by the central case. Seg was by it, standing, still in his Sec-Gard uniform. Something was wronger, different.

  “Places, places. Go half minute.”

  To my dismay shouts of okayee rose. Where when I needed them were the lost junction boxes, those faulty connections, the petulances and hatreds? They alone could postpone my demise. I looked again toward Seg. He was made up, cosmeticked to the eyeballs. That’s what was different. A makeup girl was replacing her grimy sticks and powder puffs in her horrible plastic toolbox—Seg? In the movie? He was standing where amiable sweatshirt assistants had been. Throughout the rehearsals the security man—the one I bambammed and who’d bam bammed me—was represented by anybody handy. I hadn’t given it a thought. Now, suddenly, Seg was the extra. It was him I was to close
on in the smoke, firing my toy gun. He was to fire back as I reached the Carta display case. I was to fall in a semblance of death. Jesus.

  Sickened, I went back in line behind Lofty, almost vomiting from fright. Seg was the film extra, the security guard. Who’d kill me, there in the smoke. What was it Laurie’d said? You bam him. He bams you. You fall, multo glasscrashshatterkaboom . . . My movie demise would take place in a cacophony made by the sound unit.

  The autoforker was waiting silently in position. Whoever held the control box need only move it forward two yards, raise its two prongs, and the locked and sealed cabinet’s top-hinged glass would be ripped up. The Carta would be exposed in its small picture frame. It was wired to the world’s security alarms—so what? The assumed culprit, Lovejoy, would be dead. His body would be proof the scam was nipped in the bud. The smoke would need time to clear, the pandemonium time to lessen. Only then, in the debris, would somebody inspect the display case. And might they have a perfect Shrouder-made replica somewhere to drop in the cabinet, to make everybody believe that no theft had actually occurred? By the time Gabriella’s security people recovered, the trail would be hopelessly obscured. These movie people talked forever of planes to catch, where they were going next, jobs overseas . . .

  Smoke. No Archie. Plus impending doom.

  "Counting,” Laurie called. "Everybody? Ten, nine—”

  I went for it. "Why’ve they shifted all the lights, Lofty?” I said loudly.

  “Shhh, Lovejoy/”

  "Five, four—”

  “They’ll see bugger all of Lancelot’s face—”

  "Two, one—”

  “Hold it.” Lancelot stepped out of our doorway, God bless his ego. “Hold it. Ray? Where’s Ray?”

  “What the hell—?"

  Screeches began, a riot of detumescence and deflation. People yelled. Lofty and Nick were staring at me. Lancelot, Meese, and a reeling Vance were bellowing in a melee of assistants. The camera people were mostly holding hands over their faces.

  “What the frigging hell, Lovejoy? No light’s changed.” I swear Lofty nearly took a swing at me.