She was still blank. I found myself up, walking about. “For Christ’s sake, love,” I cried, exasperated. “Can’t you see? That’s why the values increase faster than the National Debt! It’s like a Gainsborough, irreplaceable.”
“You’re telling me Bill’s odd because he isn’t interested in antiques?”
Give me strength. I’d thought all Yanks were fascinated by antiques, but here I was having a hard time telling them about the treasures on their own doorstep.
“Look, love. You know that Manhattan building somebody sold for, what was it, zillions? On the news two days agone. Remember it? Well, the secretary desk I mentioned could buy two such buildings, and leave change. You follow?” She nodded slowly. God, she was beautiful, yet gorgeous women drive me at least as mad as the lesser lights.
“I see.”
“And a small Philadelphia pier table —” I held my hand less than a yard above her carpet “— could buy the very next hotel.” I was yelling down at the numbskull. “You can’t criticize Bill for not being interested when you’re stupid as him —”
“Sit down, Lovejoy.”
Her tone chilled me. I sat, suddenly less narked. Her brain was clicking, her gaze distant and venomous. I wished I was back at the bar. We sat for a full minute. She stirred.
“Lovejoy. Sophie Brandau. Her jewellery today.”
“Looked genuine, Gina.” Safe ground?
“Was everybody’s?”
“What do you think I am?” I said indignantly, “I was behind the bar. All the tom—er, jewellery—I saw was genuine, far as I could tell. I liked that eighteenth-century Milanese brooch Miss Palumba was wearing, though some nerk had tried to restore it with platinum.” Silence. “You see —”
“Lovejoy.” She meant shut up. Then why had the stupid cow asked me to speak? I tried not to sulk while she did more of her long-range venom. When she spoke it was muted, sibilant.
“Make up to Sophie, Lovejoy.”
We’d not had a row. “Beg pardon?”
The curtain glided open, some electronic trick. Nicko was sitting alone at the long board table, reading his endless printouts.
“Become special to her.”
I checked my hearing against memory, decided I wasn’t hallucinating. “Er, exactly what is it you’re —”
“Do it!” she spat. I shot to my feet, edged away.
“Do you mean…?”
“Into Sophie Brandau. And report her pillow talk.”
“Look, Gina.” I retreated, babbling. “That’s something I can’t —”
“Nicko?”
Her husband spoke, still flicking along those lists. “You opened a packet of money, Lovejoy?”
“From Tye Dee?” Maybe they wanted it back.
“Your prints are on it. The money’s traceable. It was stolen from a Pittsburgh bank. A guard was killed. The bullet matches the gun in your hotel room.”
My voice went faint. “Pittsburgh? I’ve only just arrived in the US. It’s marked on my passport…”
“Illegal migrant worker? Criminal history? Now a lethal bank robber?” Nicko brought out my passport. ”No record of any date stamp in this, Lovejoy.”
I’d seen the Immigration man stamp it at the airport. I sat. Gina was suddenly impatient.
“You’ve your orders, Lovejoy. And keep me informed of the Hawkins project.”
The what? Why didn’t she just ask Moira Hawkins? She was only yards away, swanning around the deck arena with Fat Jim Bethune. And why did this megabuck outfit worry about a cheap dream in a cheap bookshop?
“It’s just some loony scheme about a missing manuscript.”
“Realistic? A practical proposition?”
“Well…”I felt it was time to splash over the side, somehow jump ship and make a run for it. Less than a few hours ago my only worry was being late at Fredo’s diner. “Her sister’s the grailer. That’s a nickname for crets who waste their lives chasing a rainbow. The Holy Grail, see? The Hawkins daftness is only a Sherlock Holmes novel. It went missing in the Victorian postal system. Every nation has its loonies,” I said apologetically, in case Gina or Nicko took umbrage. “We have folk who’re chasing two of the Virgin Mary’s milk teeth, supposedly in a pot in Syria. Fakes are life’s real trouble.”
Gina said softly, “That’s so, so right. Go now.”
I decided to play along as ordered but to cut out first chance I got. So whatever I promised now would be superfluous, since I wouldn’t be here to be checked on. I’d smile my very best at Sophie Brandau, tell Gina the gossip, then exit pursued by bear.
“How often do I report?”
“Nightly,” she said, making my mouth gape by adding, “You come to my cabin.”
And Nicko sitting there, deep in his numbers, while his wife tells a stranger to come tiptoeing into her boudoir in the candle hours? “Er, wouldn’t it be best if I —?”
“Out!”
I crept away like a night-stealer. Just in time to get pinned against the nearest bulkhead by Orly. He was ten times tougher than he looked.
“Lovejoy. You keep away, capeesh? Gina’s not switching, hear? Not to you, not anyone.”
“Okay, okay!”
It was Tye who prised Orly off. I recovered my wind while Tye shook his head and lowered Orly to the deck. He’d lifted him one-handed with barely a grunt of effort. At least I’d one ally. That’s what I thought then.
“Leave Lovejoy, Orly,” Tye said. “He’s taking orders, same as the rest of us. You want changes, you ask Jennie, okay?”
Ask Jennie? Not Nicko, Gina? I watched Orly hate me out of sight, and followed Tye towards the sound of the music and glam shambles. I’d be sorry to land Tye in it when I ran for it and shook the dust of New York off my shoes.
Tye paused at the foot of the gangway. “A tip, Lovejoy. This is big. Nobody gets outa here less’n he’s allowed. ’Kay?”
“I’ll ask first, Tye. That’s a promise.”
He gave me the bent eye for a moment.
“I can’t tell ifn you’re stoopid or clever. Know that?” He sighed and started to climb to the upper deck. “Trouble is, it’s the same thing.”
With ignorance born of idiocy, I ignored that warning too.
As I rejoined Bill behind the bar the tannoy was announcing that the opening game would commence in one hour. O’Cody, portly grey-hair in the magenta silk waistcoat of a monsignor, chuckled when Jennie joked there was still time for a quick prayer. Others laughed along. Puzzling, because I hadn’t seen a cleric come aboard, though somebody very like him had. I shelved the oddity, smiled, located Sophie Brandau in the glittering throng, whispered to Tye to have somebody spill a little vino rosso on the lovely Sophie’s dress, caught up a silver tray—gadrooned, my favourite style—and briskly went to start my compulsory courting.
CHAPTER NINE
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A spillage on a woman’s dress is an indictable offence. Funny, that, when it’s supposed to be lucky. The old Queen Mum used to say ta to nervous waiters when they plopped a drop on her lap, for luck given. Sophie Brandau didn’t quite go spare, but Blanche hurtled to the rescue when Tye — too clever to commit the crime himself —sent a waiter to accidentally tilt a carafe in passing. Kelly Palumba and a thin straw-haired wastrel called Epsilon were especially concerned. Denzie Brandau gave a bored half-glance, made some remark to Moira Hawkins, causing people to fall about. I diagnosed a husband making capital from his wife’s clumsiness. I was beginning to dislike the politician. I took over from Kelly Palumba, who cracked to her pal, “Better than your TV productions, Epsilon!” I didn't much care for her either.
“Mind, Mrs. Brandau,” I said. “Don’t stretch the material.” People don’t think. Her dress was a rich brocade, royal blue with sky sleeves. I commandeered a water decanter from a waiter and drenched a serviette. “Macon wine leaves a stain otherwise.”