The Great California Game

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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JENNIE was efficiency itself, I’ll give her that.

Thirty lasses came, mostly skilled, beautiful, drivingly ambitious. I picked a small timid bird called Prunella, in specs, clumsy, dressed plain. No wonder the US excels. I didn’t know a hundred words per minute was humanly possible. They all knew computers and could start instantly. I was worn out, told Prunella to start in twenty

“You’ll never regret this, Lovejoy,” she told me with solemnity. “This is my greatest opportunity, travelling secretary. I’ve always been a halfway girl, y’know? Sort of nearly getting there —”

“Prunella,” I said. “Rule one: not much talk.”

“You got it, Lovejoy.”

We were alone in the foyer of the Pennsylvania. “There’s another thing, Prunella. I’ll need certain, er, commercial tasks done in great secrecy. They’ll fall to you.”

She was over the moon. “Economic espionage!” she whispered. “Lovejoy, rely on Prunella!”

I was to remember that, later.

MY team assembled at Pennsylvania Station. Tye was along, of course, monolithically, saying nothing. I’d told him not to come armed, and he’d agreed. I didn’t believe him. He needed a secret howitzer. I had a first real look at Prunella in action: today with obvious contact lenses a foot deep and extraordinary flying elbows, as if protecting her files. I’d slimmed my team down to just us, was now having misgivings about my wisdom.

“Prunella,” I said wearily as she scattered her files all over the coffee shop for the umpteenth time.

“Sorry, Lovejoy.” She retrieved them.

Jim Bethune arrived, gave Tye the bent eye.

“I don’t believe this,” he said. “Us? Up the stake in the ’ckin Game?”

Travellers were pouring past. Touts were touting. We were scrunged up at a small table, at least those of us not dropping folders. The coffee was dire, first bad quaff in this wonderful land.

“Which museum are you milking, Jim?” If he had any thoughts of undermining my position, now was the time to disillusion him.

“Lovejoy,” he said, confidence swelling, “this is between you and me, right? I don’t discuss business in shitholes.”

“Tye,” I said evenly, “get rid of him.”

Tye rose, hauled him upright.

“Wait a minute, Lovejoy. I don’t mean —”

I gave him my saddest. “Jim. You’ve blown your one chance. Goodbye, and good luck.”

He clawed desperately to stay by the table as Tye started leaning towards the exit. A boy with a white forage cap by the popcorn stand edged nervously into the walkway.

“You can’t do this, Lovejoy! Metropolitan Gallery of Arts. Bickmore’s the boss…”

Tye walked him out, returned. Bethune stood outside staring in, kid at a toffee shop window perishing of neglect.

“Right, team. Prunella, you come with me. Tye, you also, but act like a chauffeur or a private assistant, okay? Jim’s to be brought in once I’ve got going.”

“We need him?” Tye asked, surprised.

“Essential. Let’s go.”

On the way to the street I told Prunella to phone Bickmore and get an immediate appointment; subject: security.

THE Metropolitan Gallery of Arts claims to be the largest in the western hemisphere. It’s right, but I’m not too sure about the arts bit. Don’t misunderstand me. It’s got tons of genuine art. It’s also got tons of stuff that is hard to classify. I can’t come to grips with a massive cube with a grandiose title. I allow that it’s art, but not my sort. I need this big stone block to tell me something about the bloke whose name’s on the caption, and it doesn’t. That off my chest, I admit that any place with 3.3 million works of art truly is a wonder.

Bethune waited nervously by the information desk while Prunella scurried on ahead, Tye patiently scooping up her dropped papers. I spoke harshly with Jim. It was difficult moving, because of the Madonna and Child. The terracotta was set in a nook by the stairs at the end of the enormous hall. Blue and white glaze is often a giveaway, as here. It bonged like a cathedral bell into me. I believed the Andrea della Robbia label—it was his uncle Luca who enamelled glazes this colour onto terracotta. I’d seen pictures of it, loved it for years. Who hasn’t? But to see it in the flesh —

“Lovejoy? Mr Bickmore’s waiting.”

Prunella scampered alongside, shoes clacking. “Are you all right, Lovejoy? You look —”

“Never heard of hay fever?” I told the silly cow, then felt sorry when she fumbled in her handbag for medicaments—

The office was grand. Bickmore was a tall, arid man of the old school. He had a knack of being willowy, so he could peer over his bifocals. I’m used to the worm’s eye view. And I’ve been put down by every trick in the book. I smiled, shook his hand, sat as Prunella’s files cascaded around.

“Prunella’s been with me a long time, Mr Bickmore,” I said. “The only polymath in my corporation.”

“You’re not American.” He was broad smiles. “What museum is your favourite back home?”

We chatted awhile about the British Museum, a few others, just enough to prove I was on intimate terms with their layout. I supplied him with a card citing me at Nicko’s office address, and was in no doubt he’d checked before letting us in.

“It’s a matter of security, Mr Bickmore,” I said pleasantly. “Yours, not mine.”

His split-level specs sloped disapproval. “You’re not selling, Lovejoy?”

“I’m not. You are. We bought tickets,” I added, smiling to show no hard feelings.

“Think of it as a suggested donation, Lovejoy.”

“Always makes fees seem easier, Mr Bickmore.”

“Security,” Bickmore said coldly. “If it’s a matter of—”

“Of the protection money you were going to pay.” I let the silence solidify. I’d warned Prunella not to be shocked. She was scribbling it all down, pen flying.

Bickmore gave orders to an intercom, rose and closed an intervening door.

“Protection money?”

“Prunella? Get Mr Dee in, please. And Mr Bethune.”

Bickmore watched Tye and the dealer enter.

“Mr Bethune? Tell Mr Bickmore, please.”

Fatty spoke, face wooden. “It came to my notice that the Met Gallery was being oppressed by the protection racketeers. I’ve paid for you, and will continue to do so.”

“For the foreseeable future,” I finished for him irritably. Give me strength. The silly sod had only two lines to learn, and he’d ballsed them up.

“Why would you do that, Mr Bethune?”

“Lovejoy persuaded me by his reputation, Mr Bickmore.”

“Thank you, Bethune,” I said. The pillock’s delivery had been putrid. Tye left with him.

“Well, I’m very, very grateful, Lovejoy!” Bickmore said slowly. He waited, Prunella’s pen zoomed, I waited.

He was a shrewd old administrator. He cleared his throat.

“This makes a considerable difference to our finances this coming year, Lovejoy. I shall make out a report to the Trustees. The Board of Regulators will be eager to express…”

His speech dried. I was shaking my head. “I, er, influenced Bethune to show my good intentions, Mr Bickmore. I’m eager to see your Gallery of Arts survive. I can’t have this lovely…” I coughed. There’s a limit to falsehood— “… this hotchpotch of a building damaged. Millions of customers come every year. Some might get injured.”

He looked from me to Prunella. “But it is protection? You’re after money?”

“No, Mr Bickmore. I’m after painless money.”

There was a plan of the building, floor by floor, occupying one entire wall. I crossed to it, trying to seem sure of myself. I guessed Prunella was coming along from the crash of tumbling clipboards.

“You’ve got the Rokeman Primitive Museum incorporated here, Mr Bickmore?” I nodded. “All those Benin heads, Nigerian sculptures, tribal items. Fantastic, eh?”

“Lovejoy. If you’re making some sort of threat…”

I turned away, knocking into Prunella who was just then rising from having picked up her things. What the hell had she brought all that stuff for, for God’s sake?

“There are threats and threats, Mr Bickmore.” He was a secret smoker. I recognized his wandering hand, edging under stress towards his waistcoat pocket’s rectangular bulge. “Think of a threat that brings money in.”

His hand halted. Maybe lessening tension.

“A profitable, ah, threat?”

“Plus a percentage of it to someone else.”

He thought for quite a time. I looked at the plans, flicking idly through catalogues and year books.

“Lovejoy,” he said finally, fingers tipping together. “This scheme, to increase our finances. Is it the sort of scheme that could be announced to the media?”

“Media’s a must, Mr Bickmore,” I advised gravely, and his face wrinkled into a guarded smile.

“Can you explain the details, please?” he asked. “Coffee?”

THERE are skeletons in every cupboard. The Met Gallery of Arts has them a-plenty.

Just like the British Museum—which has bought fakes, duds, phonys, wasting millions in its time—most museums have spent fortunes on fraud. I'm not condemning them, because crime’s as close to my heart as it is to museum curators’. The Met is a prime “lifter,” as the trade says— that is, a big official repository of antiques, any sort, which it will buy from illicit sources.

I reminded Bickmore of this in detail, until he suggested we send Prunella out for a rest. I declined.

“The Elgin Marbles were purchased in good faith, proper legitimate bills of sale and everything,” I continued earnestly.

“True, true!” He was delighted to find common ground in international law.

“So your Veracruz figures—especially that fifteenth-century Standard Bearer, and the one they call The Smiler—really should be here.” Pause. “I think, Mr Bickmore. And those Ecuador and Peru vessels too—incidentally, are they really Chavin period? Though I’ll bet your Peru gold mask’s really a Chimu, right?”

“What are you saying, Lovejoy?” His voice had gone thick. Mine does that.

I leaned forward confidentially. “Supposing one of those nations’ ambassadors started a row at the United Nations…”

He bristled. “Lovejoy. I will not countenance any return of any of our legitimate —”

“Or illegitimate? Like that Maya series of tomb artifacts you bought three years ago?” I wasn’t disclosing confidences. Every day brings fresh tales of important scams like the grave-robbers of Italy, the poor old Mayas, the threadbare Aztecs. Civilization spreads at exactly the pace of tomb-raiders.

“I deny every insinuation, Lovejoy!”

“Sit down, mate. Think a minute.” He subsided slowly. I could hear his grey cells starting up with a whirr. “A series of articles in some Latin American newspaper, raising all hell about the national treasures you’ve got here. Their national treasures. Or in an Accra daily, with African politicians complaining of neo-colonial exploitation. Get the idea?”

“No.” He spoke only for Prunella’s pen.

“Let me explain. World headlines yell: It’s those bad old Yanks again, nicking antiques. The world loves shouting this slogan.”

“So?”

“So you issue a denial— the same ones you used over the Tairona Columbia items, the Kwoma New Guinea ethnics. Isn’t it a bit odd, incidentally, to have those near the North America exhibits?” He didn’t answer. I smiled now, home and dry. “You raise the admission fee—okay, recommended donation—to that gallery. Cloak it in mystique. You have a special guard, get local volunteers on oh-so terribly vital vigilante duties, maybe even restrict the number of visitors.” I spoke over his shocked gasp. “You sell a certificate that they’ve seen it on the Great Dispute Day. Do I have to spell it all out?”

He removed his glasses, possibly for the first time since birth. “Nothing creates interest like an argument.”

“Wrong—like a patriotic argument.” I watched his smile begin, slowly extend, eliminating wrinkles. “You’re the patriot who takes on the might of… well, pick a country.”

“There’s one thing, Lovejoy. No ambassador has criticized us to the United Nations, not for three years.”

“Not for two years, six months and seventeen days, Mr Bickmore.” I smiled and stood, extending a hand. “I honestly do think another’s about due any day now.”

He came with me to the door. “We haven’t cleared things up, Lovejoy.”

“We have,” I said. “Six times what Bethune cancelled.”

He spluttered, reeled. “Six times?”

“It’s simple. You up your special ticket. Respond to the news splash, you’ll not know what to do with the money.”

His only grief was the thought of a fraction of the income slipping through his sticky administrator’s fingers. “But that’s an impossible fee, Lovejoy!”

“Not a fee, Mr Bickmore. Think of it as a suggested donation. Ready, Prunella?”

BY the end of the day I was worn out. We’d done over half a dozen museums, all official places with superb antiques, paintings, furniture, stuff I’d have given my life to halt at and adore. But that was the point: my life was the stake.

It’s called a “trilling” in the trade. That is, you introduce a kind of pressure from a third person— nation, ambassador, whatever you can think up— and shove it onto a second person. You yourself are the first person who makes up the prile. The problem is, you’re inextricably linked, bonded for life in a trilling. It’s not just a once-off, some deal you set up and close tomorrow and it’s goodnight dworlink at the door. Oh, no. A trilling’s everything but a marriage, though there’s even less love, would you believe. The one important factor different from all other con tricks is that big trillings need big organization. And even little ones sometimes do. Our UK trillings occur in London, Newcastle and Brighton. I’ve only been in two in my time, and was lucky to get out of both.

We did trillings on the Brooklyn Galleries Centre (sorry, Brooklyn Center), the American Numismatists’ Society Museum, two Modern Art galleries where I drove a harsh bargain because I was feeling bolshie and Prunella and I’d had a row because by then she’d got the bit between her teeth and was geeing me along like a bloody tired nag. Plus the Museum and Gallery of Broadcasting Arts off Fifth Avenue at East 53rd Street where I drove one harder still on account of I blame them for time wasting. Oh, and the Natural History place. That was a particular difficulty I’ll tell you about, in case you ever do a trilling.

You vary the trilling, of course. The threat of an international lawsuit wouldn’t work with a Natural History place, at least not much. But I had little compunction, what with the Natural History Museum of the Americas standing on Columbus Avenue, Central Park West, and being the size of London. It chills my spine. I mean, stuffed animals are all very well, but the poor things should have been left alone, and I’m not big on dinosaurs even if 2.8 million New Yorkers see them every single year.

It’s a question of tactics. I had to raise the great Disease Scare Tactic on this occasion, telling the gentle Mrs. Beekman after an hour’s jockeying that she would soon hear a clamour that would close her museum, possibly for good, if she didn’t accede to my humble request for a small fraction of the ticket takings. She was a harsh bargainer. I was practically wrung out by repeating my gilded threats under her vociferous cross-examination.

I told her, “Our London churches are excavating their crypts all over the city. They have devoted doctors to check there’s no diseases itching to pop out and grapple with the populace. Understand?”

“London had its problems in the seventeeth century,” she said primly. “So long ago, wasn’t it?”

Okay, so she knew that diseases fade away. “The public doesn’t know that, lady. And what with AIDS, series of unknown viruses yet to be announced…”

My clincher was promising to have specimen newspapers delivered to her next morning, carrying banner headlines announcing Contagious Disease Risks at Museum of Natural History, adding regretfully that it might be difficult to prevent them falling into the wrong hands. I also promised that she’d be saved the bother of legal claims filed against her museum. She tried the police threat. I asked her to phone Commissioner J.J. Kilmore and talk the matter over with him.

She surrendered eventually, she guaranteeing a payment of fifty cents on the dollar. I guaranteed a bonus: her request for staff increases the following year would be given favourable mention in high places. I wouldn’t pass that on to Denzie Brandau, of course, because I was lying. She’d really put me through it. I’d tell Jennie to pay a fraction of each Natural History instalment into a numbered bank account in, say, Philadelphia. In Mrs. Beekman’s name, of course. Safety does no harm.

Trilling ploys are not necessarily animose. You can have quite friendly gambits. Like the Bickmore one. I mean, that would bring money pouring in over the transom. We’d get a share, but so what? A plus is a plus is a plus. The Numismatists—loony obsessionals the world over—were a pleasure to deal with, because I could faithfully promise a major find of certain hammered silver coins, right here in New York State! The bloke was really delighted, because the carrot (there’s always got to be a carrot in a trilling) was that the hoard would be mainly the sort his main foe collected.

“Fall in value of your pal’s collection?” I guessed.

“He might be inclined to sell,” he replied evenly.

“Good heavens,” I said just as evenly. “Whereupon you’d buy them, the day before the coins were revealed as counterfeit?”

He fell about at that, me laughing with him.

“I’ll see the publicity’s done right,” I promised. “Fancy some early English hammered silver coins, soon to be discovered at Roanoke? Only, I’ve got some maniacs back home who’d be really keen to have a regular thing going…”

See what I mean? Some antiques people are a pleasure to do business with.

THAT evening I totted up the sums fleecing in soon, and found I’d bettered Jim’s by a clear six-fold. It took me two hours on the phone with Prunella close by reading her notes in the hotel at Pennsylvania Station where Jennie had booked us in. I fixed all the frayed edges, the outstanding threats and promises, settled the transfers, formed up a method of checking on the payments with Gina’s accountants, and had the contributors listed at Jennie’s.

Prunella was paid. She was flushed, exulting.

“You know, Lovejoy,” she said, transported. “I’m on a high! I’m flying! The girls back at the agency would never believe me.”

“Will never, Prunella,” I warned. “Confidentiality. Besides—”

“Yes?” she breathed.

I thought, what the hell. I might never get out of this. “Would you care to stay for supper, Prunella?”

“Supper? Oh, yes!” It’s the one way to guarantee silence. As guarantees go.