Done for me? I had money to give her, but not straight off. I’m not as dim as all that.
“I need your help, Magda.”
She looked up at me from the bed, disbelieving. “Help? Shag’s all I do.”
“I may be going somewhere.” I paused too long. “Okay? I need somebody I can trust.”
“Lovejoy. I got something to tell you —”
I shoved her down when she tried to stand. Give me a battered bone-weary prostitute, I’m as tough as they.
“I know about the phone calls to Tye, how much you were paid.”
She was baffled. “Whyn’t you beat me?”
“I have people for that now, love. They’re better at it.” Not much of a joke, but she calmed with a non-smile. I didn’t quite know how far to risk the little I knew. There’s that Arabian saying, isn’t there: doubt your friend, sleep with your enemy.
“If I’ve guessed right, I’ll be travelling out of New York, several places, in a hurry.”
“Somebody after you?”
“No. But I’ll need somebody around,” The surprised understanding in her eyes made me speed through a denial. “Not a bird wanted on voyage. I need somebody close by to do the occasional job, keep contact, be at certain places.”
“You want me? What about —?”
“Take Zole. I’ll pay you, and fares.”
She was casting about the space just as Fat Jim Bethune had.
“Outa N’York? I never been…”
“You’ll need clothes, Magda.” I’m always wary about telling women things about their gear. “Though your frock’s pretty, er, smart, love, it might, er…”
“I’m in fuckin rags, Lovejoy.” She ran a finger across her cheek against wetness. “Is this up real, Lovejoy?”
I pulled out a small wad. Bethune’s money, until I’d given harsh orders to the accountant.
“Dress Zole reasonable, nothing way out. And don’t take any lip from him. He’s coming. I’ll need him for a couple of specific theft jobs. Okay?”
She looked. “How d’you know I’ll not blow the money?”
“I trust you. Don’t show yourselves in your new stuff, or somebody’ll guess. Be here every even hour from midday tomorrow, twelve o’clock, two o’clock. Understand? Ready to go.”
“Lovejoy, I’m scared.” She still hadn’t put the money away, but her pocket was torn and she’d left her handbag in her room. “I’m not… so good at reliable.”
She was scared? I nearly did clout her one when she said that. I drew slow breath. “Magda. This is your frigging country, not mine. You’ve got to look after me, okay? You just remember I’m the one who’s got to be looked after, not selfish cows like you.”
She appraised me, nodding slowly. Age was slowly fading into youth. A glim of a smile nearly showed.
“You’re right about that, Lovejoy. Deedy.”
Different woman, same opinion. “First job’s to collect something from the airport.” I passed her a piece of paper with a flight number. In the safety of Zole’s absence I’d dared a phone call to Easy Boyson, who’d been going mad. It’s a stiff envelope. You’ll have to pay out of that money. Bring it with you.”
We said a number of okays, some doubtful. She headed for a mirror. I left then.
THE cocktail party I was made to attend could have been better placed. I mean, New York’s galleries and museums are famous. Think how superb a splash in some prestigious museum would be, with antiques and paintings all around so you needn’t see people swallowing oysters and stabbing each other. Instead, you could respond to the melodious chimes of a Wedgwood jasper, a Blake drawing, see the brilliant leaves tumble on a Sisley canvas.
But it was a posh hotel. We swigged, noshed the groaning buffet and everybody talked. The people were all there from the boat, including Moira, Commissioner Kilmer, Denzie and Sophie—the former paying little attention to Moira except when their looks accidentally lingered. Good old Melodie van Cordlant was there, meaningful with glances and arm squeezes. Jennie was with everyone, curt except with Nicko on whom she fawned. Orly clung to Gina, talking loudly and occupying her every moment. Berto Gordino, lawyer of this parish, came with Kelly Palumba, for whom Epsilon the showbiz magnate competed in shrill tones. Kelly looked a million quid. Long might it last, I thought. Monsignor O’Cody was last to come. Jim Bethune was at the far end of the room, now in his Sunday best, being spoken to by Tye Dee in an undertone. Hey ho, I thought with sympathy.
“Canapés, sir?”
“Ta, Chanel. Home team playing today, eh?”
I was the only one eating. All the rest were swilling at other troughs.
Chanel checked we weren’t overheard, said, “Always is the home team, Lovejoy. You gotta believe it.”
Mr Granger called out that all guests were invited through into the conference salon, where drinks would be available. I complained that I’d only just started, but there was a concerted rush for the double doors. I grabbed a load of rolls, cheese, some slabs of egg-looking thing, while Blanche hurriedly loaded up more for me. No pasties, and biscuits are New York’s lack—mind you, they’d only have tons of cinnamon in. I was last into the long room.
Places were marked, as for a wedding reception. Kelly had started giggling, was being shushed by Epsilon and Berto Gordino. I found my name card between those of Orly and Gina.
Nicko appeared, with Jennie, took the position of authority.
“Jim Bethune sends his apologies, friends.” He had one small piece of paper before him, served up by Jennie. “Lovejoy’s taking his place from now on.”
“Is that legit, Nicko?” Denzie Brandau asked easily, smiling round the table. “First I heard of it.”
“It is, Denzie,” Nicko seemed oblivious of the sudden silence. “Any questions?”
“Where exactly does Lovejoy take over from Jim?” Charlie Sarpi asked. I wondered how he managed his moustache. Sophie prevented herself from giving him the bent eye just in time. Gina was watching her across the phony mahogany.
“Right away, Charlie. Every level.”
“Look, Nicko.” Denzie did that politician’s shift to indicate exasperation. It consists of obliquely arranging his trunk, plonking a hand firmly on the table, arm outstretched, and crossing his legs. “Who is this Lovejoy? I mean, where’s the beef?”
“Lovejoy’ll double the antiques stake, Denzie. There’s the beef.”
A ripple of interest ran round the table. Monsignor O’Cody peered down at me, specs gleaming.
“How’ll he do that, Nicko?” Commissioner Kilmer barked. It was honestly that, a sharp yap, grossly out of keeping with his tall bulk. I don’t know what he’d been like as a young bobby, but even ageing as he was he put the fear of God in me.
The silence meant me. I was eating my grub, which I’d made into rolls. I can’t resist anything in bread. I hurried the mouthful, swallowed.
“Lovejoy?” Nicko said.
“No, thanks.”
The silence now meant ???
“What the hell’s that mean, Nicko?”
“Stay calm, J.J.” Nicko let me swallow, come up for air. “Lovejoy. You must bring in double what Jim Bethune did. Do you know how much that is?”
“Yes, Nicko.”
His hands opened expressively. He was so patient, but getting quieter. Any minute those dark lasers he used for eyes might actually swivel onto me and sear the inside of my skull. I didn’t want that.
“Are your methods so secret they can’t be divulged?”
“Nicko.” I shoved my tray away, showing my sincerity. “I’m out of my depth here. Oh, I’ll get the gelt.”
Nicko’s gaze charred nearer, less than a yard from my right shoulder. Even Gina leant away. “With help?”
“Yes. I’ll need two helpers, full time.” Before anybody could cut in, I started my spiel. “See, I don’t know who’s on our side, Nicko. I know you are. And Gina. And I think Jennie. But these other ladies and gentlemen I don’t even know. I don’t know what the stake is to be—everything I cull from antiques? And for what?” I tried to spread my hands like Nicko but it didn’t work and I felt a prat so put them away. “This Game, Nicko. Tell me who’s got a right to know, and I’ll come clean about my methods, every detail.”