“Hey, man. Bettune? East 74th?”
“Eh?”
The bloke who’d slammed the druggie was crouching by me. He was a giant, even bigger than Josephus.
“Yo dealer man. Bettune? East 74th?”
What the hell was he on about? I squinted up at him. “Boss saysno names, man.”
“Rahd own.” Right on. The great head nodded slowly, big as a bison’s and biblical with it. He waited a moment, staring at me with vast bloodshot eyes, then snapped his fingers and without having to look caught a clutch of dollars somebody instantly passed him. “Yo cash, man.”
“Thank you.”
I remember very little else for seven or eight hours after that. Somebody playing a mouth organ, everybody having awkward pees with everybody else grumbling, the druggie waking to the shakes in a screaming fit, that persistent clanging, occasional shouts, vehicles wahwahing outside.
They called me about six in the morning. Except it was the brightest-suited lawyer I’d ever seen, all smiles and brilliant teeth. A holiday camp of a lawyer if ever I’d seen one. He knew everybody, slapped backs, had a million jokes, a cheroot, expensive tan, and a briefcase chained to his wrist. It held one sheet of paper which he produced with a magician’s flourish. I never did learn what was on it, but it sprang me.
“See yaz, Lovejowa,” boomed the bass after me.
“Oh, yes. Bye. And thanks, er…” How did he know me?
“Busman. West 42nd station, yo in town.” The bass varoomed a laugh octaves down.
“Name of Gordino,” the lawyer told me, shaking my hand. I blinked at the light while he signed at a desk. I’d never seen so many police in such a hurry. Like a commuter rush, barging past and yelling things like “Yo!” They had more hardware on their belts than most tinkers’ carts. “This way, Lovejoy.”
“Er, thank you, Mr Gordino. It’s most kind of you to —”
“That’s all, Lovejoy.” He muttered the instruction from the side of his mouth, impressing me. I knew I’d be trying to do it in front of the mirror as soon as I made it back to the hotel.
As we left the cop shop he made a regal progress, acknowledging everybody, any rank and role. “Hey, Al! How ya goin’?” and “Tom? Okay Thursday, get beaten by a slicker handicap?” Our departure was a crazy crosstalk act, him the cheerleader, pally police an amiable gauntlet.
We made the car park and he changed into a bitter unsmiling man.
“You bastard,” he said, lips tight, sinking into a saloon. Tye Dee was sitting beside the driver. It was Tony the roof-tapper. He said nothing, so neither did I. Gordino cursed me. “You double mother of a bastard. Never try that on me again, ya hear?”
“Right, sir,” I said anxiously.
“Why the frigging fuck you not lay out the wire?” he said through his slit. If he loved the police, he hated me for not laying out his wire. I nodded blankly. “It took me nine—repeat nine—long hours to find you.”
“I’m sorry. I promise.” But promise what? So far, nobody in America had understood me. And I was lagging in the comprehension stakes by a mile.
Gordino mopped his face with a crimson handkerchief. He was trembling, here in broad daylight. I looked out, trying to see where we were going, but Tye’s eyes caught me in the rear mirror and I sank -down so as not to see.
“Double bastard,” the lawyer muttered a couple of times.
We drove out of Manhattan, some tunnel to somewhere. Wherever it was was sure to be beautiful, leafy, affluent, and baffling as the rest of America. I started scratching, having caught lice from the gaol. I wondered about Busman, Bettune, 74th Street, having my money returned by robbers for nothing. And, of course, why I was a swine to Gordino on account of some wire. And why Tye Dee looked scared for his skin. I was scared for mine, of course, but that was normal.
It was about eight o’clock, the morning rush hour. I drew breath to suggest that I’d best be making tracks for Fredo’s bar, but stayed silent.
IT was more than a yacht. It was a cruiser, white as a goose. Twin masts and striped awnings. They didn’t have vessels like this in the Blackwater at home. This was a cocktails-and-caviar boat, not a coastal slogger ready for gales such as I was used to. It was the only vessel at the small pier.
The crew weren’t uniformed so much as standardized, which was much less reassuring. Only half a dozen of them, but fit and wary. One just stood there in the stern, scanning the distant wooded riverbank and talking quietly into his chest whenever another boat glided by.
I went up the gangplank after Gordino. He was into his windmill mode, the big hello and cheroot, pretending to throw up over the side when the boat rocked slightly in a wash.
“Follow on,” Tye Dee said. He was uncomfortably close behind me.
It was a lovely morning, the sun already up and a few boats plying the water. Cars winked windscreens on tiny roads parallel to shore. A few gulls planed over. Several other yachts were moored further downriver. It felt good to be alive. God, but yes it did. I warmed again to America, not solely because there was Gina Aquilina in a white towelling dressing gown observing our arrival from under an awning on the top deck.
Nicko cooled my pleasure at this nautical scene. His stare was somewhere to the northwest, his voice sibilant. Jennie wasn’t there. Orly was, seething at me as usual.
“Lovejoy’s done well,” Nicko said, “He gets bonused.”
Bonus a verb too? I grinned, but my face wouldn’t play, stood there like a lemon.
“Tye, man.” Nicko heaved a moderate sigh. “About you.”
“Let Lovejoy tell it, Nicko,” Mrs. Aquilina begged. Funny sort of begging, though. Quiet, yet the words piercing everybody’s reluctance. I spoke up, worried about the outcome but avoiding scratching at the lice. Fleas get poems written in their honour. Lice are just misery.
“Why didn’t you warn Tye, Lovejoy?” she asked.
“About the men in the motor? I… I didn’t know if I was wrong.” I’d explained about the tiepin man, his sudden moustache and quick change, his running exit, the signal to the two men. Except I’d tried, and Tye had almost flattened me. I left that bit out.
“Why didn’t you warn Gina?” Nicko asked.
This one was more difficult. A simple lie to save Tye’s bacon was fair, but dare I try the same for Mrs. Aquilina? The space between husbands and wives is a minefield.
“I… I was too slow getting into the motor car, Nicko.”
“He looked like a hobo, Nicko,” his wife said.
“I’d no other clothes, you stupid cow!” I yelled, narked. Then swallowed myself into docility again. “Sorry, missus.”
“Good.” Nicko nodded to the distant shore. “I like that. He lies good.” He thought, glanced at the shore where Tony waited by the limo having a smoke. He wasn’t relaxed, kept looking up at the yacht. “Berto?”
Gordino said, “Lovejoy told nothing down the precinct. But he shoulda got on the wire, saved me a ton a trouble.”
“That’s okay,” Nicko forgave. “I like that, He telled nothing.” He stared at Orly. “He’s filthy. Clean him up, bring him for prima collazione.”
Breakfast! Grub on the way! And bonused! I was in some sort of favour, an experience so rare I’d been slow to realize it.
“Who’s the broad?” he asked the river.
“Rose Hawkins, Nicko,” Tye replied for me. “Bookseller. She’s hot for Lovejoy. Has some book job for him is all.”
“Excuse me, er, Nicko,” I ducked slightly as his head rotated. It turned like a gun’s swivel mount in a turret, stopped short of my face, thank God.
Silence, except for seagull sounds by the galley portholes.
“Er, can I ask Mr Gordino to do something? I’d pay—well, owe him, if it’s okay by you.” Mrs. Aquilina had a sudden alert interest, a stoat about to start its rabbit-transfixing dance. “There’s a bloke —guy — in the police station. Can you try to help him? Busman. He was kindly.”