The Great California Game

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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AMERICA’S phones are bliss. Their habit of actually working is very disconcerting: put in a coin, dial and speak to whoever answers. I truly hope it catches on elsewhere. In little over half an hour, I made ten transatlantic calls to East Anglia and London. Cost me an arm and a leg, but I was over the moon. In East Anglia, a public phone is a dangling flex.

“Get through, Lovejoy?”

“Eh?” I wished Zole wouldn’t keep doing that, suddenly being there with his bloody yo-yo. Hearing my name in this exotic paradise was queer enough. “Oh, aye.” I’d told Boyson’s pal I’d ring in an hour. If he wasn’t home and waiting I’d…

“Stay cool, Lovejoy.” Zole was whizzing his damned yo-yo past my ear. It sounded like a mosquito, the sort that wakes you up slapping at air. “Cool’s no fool.”

“Why do you Yanks talk so?” I asked, starting across the traffic with the sudden rush of pedestrians as the green WALK light showed. I didn’t particularly need to cross, but in New York you seize any opportunity. “Gossip’s a trash flash, honesty’s a sleaze freeze.” I’d noticed this as soon as I arrived. A dim actor of notable physique was a punk hunk, a crosstown journey a side ride. All catch phrases.

“You mad ’cos you cain’t talk, Lovejoy.” Whizz, whizz.

“Maybe true, Zole. Coffee?”

We went into a shop I’d never seen closed, perched on stools overlooking the tormented traffic. Zole ordered numerous hamburgers. How had he survived until he’d acquired teeth?

“Lovejoy, you stupid.”

I grabbed him by his tee-shirt. “Listen, you arrogant little sod. Call me stupid again and I’ll —”

“I’m doin’ you favours here, man!” He dusted himself down with dignity. “This is N’York, Lovejoy. You gotta do like N’York, see? Or you don’t make it.”

“Make what?”

He sighed, wading into his grub. Seeing him eat made me hungry so I went and bought two of the nearest things they had to a pasty.

“Like, I say you cain’t talk, you don’t agree, man. That’s the stupid. I say you cain’t talk, you gotta say the same back, but real mean.”

“I have?” I was curious.

“And don’t pay the fuckin’ phone. You works it. Then you gets the call free, understand? You think Magda pays when she calls Tye ever’ night?”

Magda, phoning Tye? “It’s illegal,” I said, to keep him going. I was learning.

“Legal’s stupid, Lovejoy. Legal’s jess N’York puttin’ you down. I’ll show you.” He looked about for a second, then appalled me by yelling, “Hey, lady! Where’s the ketchup?”

I went red. “Shhhh, you little —”

“Comin’ ride up,” somebody called, quite unconcerned. I smiled apologetically as it arrived. Zole noshed on, mollified.

“See?” he said eventually. “I hollers no ketchup, you says you’re sorry. They thinks you stupid. They knows I’m not. Like that book you buying.”

I stilled. How much of my phoning had the little sod overheard? “Book?”

“Don’t send dollars less’n you get it first, see? Stupid.”

I smiled at the obnoxious little nerk. “Ah. That’s just some money I owed him.”

“He don’t squeeze, you don’t pay, Lovejoy. That’s smart.”

“It is?” I wondered if he had any leanings towards being an antique dealer. With his instinct for fraud, he’d do a bundle.

“Get the whole book, Lovejoy. One page is stupid.”

He’d heard everything. “But what if—”

He glared at me in fury, yelled, “Who’s doin’ the buying, man? You or him? You? Then don’t pay’s smart. Lemme talk to him.”

We discussed this proposition until we’d finished. I said I’d follow his advice, meaning I’d make sure nobody was listening next time, meaning Zole. I just hoped he wouldn’t say anything to Magda. With her circle of clients I’d be done for in a day.

BRIAN Tarnley can’t be trusted either, but that’s because he’s an antiquarian bookseller. The important thing about him is he owns a dingy upstairs room near Floral Street, Covent Garden. There, Easy Boyson works rent free.

It’s a strange partnership, founded on two things. First is that Easy Boyson’s daughter is Brian’s wife. Second is that Boyson’s on the run, has been these five years. He was unbelievably a major, as in rank. His august old regiment was understandably vexed when the regimental silver vaporized. The peelers failed to find Boyson, or the tom. Which was lucky for Brian, who’d married Easy’s daughter and could provide the scarpering major with a safe nook. Investigations revealed gaping holes where the military’s bulging bank accounts should have been.

Neighbours occasionally query the two Tarnley children’s tales about a grandfather who lives in their attic and isn’t allowed to come out and play. Brian tells everybody that Alice’s dad’s poorly.

Which is great for Brian, because Easy Boyson’s a forger. And the police are still unravelling the handwriting on withdrawal forms in Glyn Mills, bankers of Pall Mall.

Zole followed me to the phone, eager to show me how to defraud the phone company. I declined, and told him I was phoning a lady and my talk was not for little boys. He went off disgusted.

“Easy Boyson? Wotcher. It’s Lovejoy.”

“Where the hell are you, Lovejoy? A tank exercise?”

Brisk, military. I warmed to him. He still rises at six, spick and span by seven, ready for action.

“Conan Doyle, Easy. Do me a Sherlock Holmes page. You’ll find examples of his handwriting in —”

“Leave recce to me, Lovejoy. Degree of authenticity?”

“Complete,” I said. Another fortune down the nick.

“Excellent!” Forgers love perfection. ”Continuation?” He meant was there a chance the buyers would want the whole thing later on.

“Possibly.”

“Right.” He pondered a moment, named a price that staggered.

“Fair enough.” I told him. “I’ll have it collected.”

“Good luck, Lovejoy. Regards to New York.”

And rang off. I supposed it was the traffic or something gave my location away. But Easy Boyson was an officer and a gentleman. Word his bond. Thank goodness for standards.

Then I used my last dollars to do something truly momentous. I scribbled a note to Mrs. Gina Aquilina, saying I didn’t quite know where I stood, but had faithfully followed her instructions, and had striven to identify the source of the Hawkins grailer. A sample page would soon be on hand, when I would send it. I signed it, put it in an envelope, and got a cycle courier to come to the coffee shop. He was there in an unbelievable space-age time of two minutes, and hurded off on payment of my last groat.

Nothing for it. I walked all the way back to Fredo’s, signed in for the remainder of the day, and started my cheery greetings to all comers. Until the fire touched the fuse.

Middle of the midday rush it happened, one o’clock and every seat in the place occupied, people arguing sports and politics and prices and traffic in the way I was growing to love, all peace and racket.

“Lovejoy? Take a break.”

“Wotcher, Tye.”

“Hey, what about my order?” a customer called angrily from along the counter as I doffed my apron. I shrugged. Zole had taught me how to yell, but not what to reply. Fredo tore out of his office in a state.

“Glad to catch your visit, Lovejoy,” he groused.

“Not be long, boss.”

Tye gave me a look that sank my spirits, conducting me to his car. It was misparked, but without a parking ticket.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Lovejoy,” he sighed, opening his passenger door. “But you’re sure attracting Gina’s attention lately.”

When you need a light quip, none comes. Ever notice that?

THE road north from New York splits into a frond of motorways. We bent right, and distantly I recognized a stretch of water. “Hey, Tye!” I went, excited. “That’s where we sailed!”

“Lovejoy. You a wiseass or dumb?”

He’d obviously got out of bed the wrong side. I ogled the scenery. Small towns came and went. Connecticut’s pronounced with a load of Ds it hasn’t got. The sun lit hills. Trees shone a strange and lovely russet I’d never quite seen before, quite like Chinese amber. We drove less than two hours, to a mansion with porticos and white pillars, lawns which people hate you to call manicured. No gates, but a goon in seeming somnolence that fooled nobody. He bent, peered at Tye, me, the limo’s interior, shrugged us through.

“Reckon there’s Civil War antiques here, Tye?”

He sighed, made no reply. We alighted and Blanche, lovely as ever but even more distant, ushered me in to a drawing room whose very length tired the ankles. Gina was sitting writing letters at a pathetic rubbishy desk, fetchingly decorating a window alcove against sunlight and olivine curtains.

“Lovejoy.” No sit down either. ”You found what?”

“The grailer, Gina. I think.”

She slowly ran her gaze from my scuffy shoes to my unruly thatch. I felt specimened, candidate for a museum jar.

Her slender hands held the card I’d posted, and my scribble. She didn’t ask where, how, what. Just examined me. A reaming, draining inspection. Her eyes were bleak as a winter sea.

“What did I order you to do, Lovejoy?”

“Er, well, missus.” My voice quivers when I’m scared and my throat dries so it’s hard to get a conversation going.

“What?”

I jumped, stammered, “To, er, make up to Sophie Brandau, report what I learned.”

She beckoned me gently. I went close, stooped when she crooked her finger. Her hand lashed my face. The silly cow nearly ripped my eye from its socket, missing by a whisker. My head spun.

“And did you?

“I’ve no money, except the marked stuff that’ll get me arrested.”

She considered that.

“Lovejoy. I’m no longer interested in whether you’re as innocent as you seem, or double shrewd.”

She could have expressed slightly more enthusiasm. I’d saved her from kidnap, or worse.

“Now I’m changing the rules. I give you orders day to day, understand? You start now.” Why do agitated women clutch their elbows when they march about? I dithered, not knowing if I had to follow her. She returned, halted, gorgeous. “Tell me about the Hawkins thing.”

I did, speaking with utmost sincerity into her eyes and only occasionally losing my place. Whistling bravely past the graveyard, I said only what I’d rehearsed.

“I spent every cent on phone calls to England. Dealers I know, who owe me, ones I could trust. And I kept it down to no-name stuff.” I fluttered my eyes, the best I could do for shyness. “A… lady I know. She’s married. We used to be, well, close friends. I got her to sift her husband’s reserve records. He’s a big antiquarian.”

“So it’s true? This…?”

“Manuscript thing? It seems so. She’s getting me a single sheet, day after tomorrow. I’ll divvy it.” I waited. “I thought it’d be what you’d want me to do.” I was pleased with myself. She wasn’t responding much, but I felt my tide turn. “See, Moira could tell me anything. In bed or out, I d have only her account to go on. I know me, see? I’m hopeless with women. I believe them.”

Gina paced, stood looking.

I took her raised brows as an invitation to speak on. “Moira Hawkins is a lady who wants much more than she has. Deep down, she’s ambitious. Look at me, Gina. I’m a scruff. I’m no Fauntleroy. Would she be seen in a restaurant in my company?”

“There’s Rose.”

“Or the Brandaus?”

“You mention them together, Lovejoy. Why?”

“They’re lovers, Gina. I’m not that thick.”

Suspicions are meat and drink to women, so I kept going.

“Sophie Brandau doesn’t want the scam to succeed. She knows it’s untrue anyway. Sophie’s frightened. It’s all got out of hand. She wants him to chuck it.”

“How do you know this?”

“It’s plain as a pikestaff. I think Sophie hocked her jewellery so she could maybe buy Denzie out of Moira’s scam.”

“What did she use the money for?”

“Buy the grailer?” I suggested, trying the American shrug. I tried it again, gave up.

She stood at the window, fingers tapping her elbows. “How much is a grailer?”

“Depends on the amps.” Her head shook minutely so I’d explain. “Amplifying factors. They work to tell you the price of an antique, anywhere.”

I lifted a gilt silhouette sugar bowl from the low cornish. The poor phony thing was trying to be genuine Hausmaler work from Augsburg, about 1725. “This fake’s from Berlin—see how they tried to get the proper silhouette of these flying birds? They went mad for Chinese fashion in the eighteenth century. This doesn’t…” My words run out when I try to explain what happens. My chest should lighten and chime. I turned the lidded bowl over. Zilch.

“It’s an 1880s fake. Price? Only two months’ wages. If it was genuine, that counts one amp. If you’d got an original bill of sale from Augsburg, that’s provenance and counts another amp. And genuine counts a third. Rarity, four. Is it of special material or mint? Five. Signature of the master, Johann Aufenwerth? Six. Then there’s the grail factor, last of all. Like, say this was owned by Abraham Lincoln himself! Makes seven. Seven times two is fourteen. Hence the lowest price you can afford to sell it at is fourteen times the average monthly wage. See?” I replaced the chinoiserie carefully. She was listening, saying nothing.

“Some antiques have a base price—that’s only the same, but compounded of amps to get the unit. Pearls, say. Get the quality first, expressed as currency units. Our unit is one pound sterling. Say you’ve a pearl, right? You phone a jeweller: what’s this week’s unit base average for pearls, ma man?” I was embarrassed, caught out doing my dud accent. “He tells you it’s one. Before you do anything else, you weigh the pearl, in grains. It’s nine, a whopper.

The cost is exactly nine times nine, equals eighty-one quid that day. The price fluctuates. Like, next week’s average unit base price might be two. Then your pearl’s zoomed to eighty-one times two, see?”

I was suddenly conscious of a stirring behind me. Jennie and Nicko stood there. Malice was in the air.

With one woman I’ve always the feeling I’ve a chance. With two, and a criminally-minded lover of one who was also the husband of the first, I was in irons.

“You see what I mean, Nicko?” Gina asked, her job done. She went to her Victorian chaise longe, early repro but none the worse for that. She embellished it by just reclining. I envied it, quickly went back to being humble.

“He’s a risk,” Jennie said. I disliked Jennie. She always sounded so bloody cold. I’d reported to her not Gina, about Bill. Then Bill was killed. Then Gina sends Tye to duff me up for not reporting. Aha.

“Maybe worth taking,” Gina suggested.

“For what, though?” Nicko lit a cigarette. “I can’t have any slip, this late stage.”

“For the Game.”

Jennie’s sharp intake of breath endeared her to me even less. Nicko stilled her worry with a shrug.

“Where’s the gain?” he asked. He stared balefully past me with his black eyes.

“We know Moira Hawkins is fronting something with Denzie Brandau, Nicko. We don’t know what. Lovejoy here knows values. You heard him. Okay, so he’s stupid—”

“Just a minute, Gina.” They talked on over me.

“—but that doesn’t mean he can’t be used.”

I tried to look useful, effective, anything to prevent my being taken away pleading like Tony.

“Used how?” Nicko asked.

“Like I tried. A plant.”

Jennie couldn’t control herself. “You tried that, dear.”

Gina’s smile was cold. “I underestimated Lovejoy. He’s weird, but oddly effective. He’s latched onto the Sherlock thing.”

“He says, dear.”

Women can put malice into that innocent word. It splashed like malevolent oil.

“He said himself it might not be the right one. But it’s a superb effort without any resources.”

I liked Gina. She was brainy as well as beautiful.

“He’d have got close to Sophie if we’d funded him from the start.” I wanted to give Nicko a reproachful glance to remind him of his marked money business, but bottled out. “We take him on staff, tell Denzie openly that Lovejoy rides with them as our informant.”

“Have you thought of risks at all, dear?” from Jennie.

“Wait.”

Nicko sat staring into space. My attention wandered between the exquisite Gina and a piece of original Chelsea porcelain ceiling ornament above me. It was misplaced, of course, stuck there without any other decoration to support it on the walls, but it was exuding a lovely warmth that any genuine antique gives —

People were talking.

“Answer, Lovejoy,” Gina commanded. “What will you require?”

“A small sum to send for the sample page.” I explained I was getting it on tick. “And to know enough to stop being scared I’m making mistakes.”

That earned me a blast of black-eyed laser from Nicko’s eyes. To my disgust I found myself begging.

“Well, for Christ’s sake. I’m on a tightrope every waking hour. I’m given orders I don’t understand, not knowing if I’m going to get myself topped or not, beaten up —”

“The number he gave checked out,” Jennie said.

“Right, Gina. Do it. Your can, okay?” Nicko rose and walked from the room. Jennie had to scurry to catch up before the door closed.

Gina was smiling-not-smiling. “Allies, Lovejoy. Welcome to the team.”

“Do I get the chance of a bath? Paid?”

“Money, yes. But not the reward you’re holding out for.” She smiled genuinely now, sipped her drink, feline. “Plus one very very special benefit.”

“What?”

“You’re in the California Game, Lovejoy.”

“Thanks, love.” Like hell I am, I thought. I’m off out.