“How d’you do, Lorrie?” I greeted. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Busman loved that. “We gotta gentleman here, no mistake. He sprunged me last week, that big society mouthpiece. Give him a drink.”
We rested in deep leather armchairs. I was given some hooch that made my eyes water. Lorrie was thrilled, seeing my gasp as evidence of sensitivity.
Busman enjoyed himself telling her how I’d got myself almost dissected by the maelstrom in the concourse. I worked out that we were somewhere deep below West 42nd Street, the bus station heaving and churning away way above our heads. I didn’t like the sensation. I looked round. No antiques, which was a disappointment.
“Is this all a part of…?”
“Sure is,” Busman said. ”They don’t call for the rent, is all.” He laughed. Lorrie laughed.
“Do they know this goes on?”
“Sure do, Lovejoy.” He explained to Lorrie, “He don’t know frum nuthin’ Lorrie. Like a chile, so say everythin’ two times but start over part way in, see? Tell him it. I gotta check Trazz not too vicious this time.” He went into an inner room which had more screens projecting from its walls.
She was fascinated, started to explain, repeating it slower as if I was gormless.
“You really don’t understand,” she marvelled. “I think it’s kinda sweet, y’know? Like…” She dug for a word. “Like innocent, y’know?”
Narked, I said I was following all right. She said hey sure, and went on telling me how Busman’s world worked. Cash defaulters had to be punished. Sarpi’s drug carriers arriving from the south today would be attacked, their merchandise seized. It was an illegal Customs and Excise.
“Why don’t the police stop it?” I said at one point, which called for more repetition, slower still, Lorrie painstakingly mouthing the words as if I’d gone deaf.
“Police got their own hack, see? Smurfers take care of them, like airlines, like property developers, building trades. Like merger capital, see? Like bullion mark-ups that happen of a sudden for no reason. Like movies that bomb, like million-dollar shows go turkey, a politician gets himself elected —”
“Elected?” I’d heard Yanks had universal suffrage.
“Sure. One’s elected, the others not paid enough, see?”
“The man?” I guessed shrewdly.
She was delighted. “You got it, Lovejoy! It’s always the man, see?”
I said, “Lorrie, I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and patience. I’m grateful.”
“Think nothing of it, Lovejoy,” she said shyly. ”It’s our pleasure.”
We talked of homes for a while, me saying about my cottage in England and trying hard to remember the price of groceries and all that so she could be outraged at differences higher or lower. Busman returned, downing a couple of whiskies more and saying that Trazz was putting too savage and that he’d have to go. He was proud that Lorrie had finally explained the way life worked. “She bright,” he said. I concurred. She was ten times brighter than me.
“Honey, Lovejoy in that shitty Benidormo,” she complained elegantly. “You not do something?”
“Thank you, love, but I’d rather stay there for a couple more nights, if that’s all right. I do appreciate your generosity.”
“You wants, you asks,” Busman rumbled benevolently. We went and I got an usher from Trazz to the upper world of life and pleasant New York skies. It was still a dream, but now tinged with dark-rimmed clouds.
CHAPTER TWELVE
« ^ »
FREDO was mightily soured by the news that I had messages to carry for Nicko and couldn’t work today. He complained, whined, appealed to the skies as he opened the bar.
“I’ll stay, then. Can I phone Nicko?”
“No!” he screeched, going pasty white. “Ya wanna get me… ?”
Killed? I went my way.
New York’s bus system’s so orderly it’s incomprehensible. You simply buy a ride, and get a permit from the driver entitling you to another ride on any bus whose route crosses yours. Get it? It all stems from this methodical crisscross system of numbering streets. I was baffled by its predictability, finally got a taxi.
“Th’ain’t got this in England ’cos they dumb, man,” the driver sang, laughing. “Like, you live say 500 Fifth Avenue. Erase that zero, divide by two, okay? Add eighteen gives forty-three. You drops the fare 43rd Street and you’s home, man.”
“How marvellous,” I said through a headache.
“Sep you add thirty-five for Park Avenue.”
Fantastically enough he dropped me right at the door. Where the commissionaire only reluctantly put a message through to the Brandau residence. I was told ten o’clock.
That left me walking through lovely New York’s morning sunshine. I’d my Manhattan map, which showed these amazing streets. The shops were so varied, the traffic instant mayhem. I stopped just to look. The taller buildings caught sun against the blue. Even the deepest chasms were relieved by a distant sheet of sky, sometimes with an exhilarating stretch of waterway. A couple of times cars nearly ran me down—wrong side of the road, I remembered eventually. Manhattan was so wonderful it was a full hour before I caught myself wandering rather than aiming, called to mind Tye Dee’s chastisement and set about finding Mrs. van Cordlant’s address on Madison Avenue. The names thrilled me, from songs and films. I felt quite proud when I managed to say Madison without adding Avenue. A real New Yorker.
My letter got me into the lift. It flung upwards like a shuttle, casting me out at altitude into a plush ballroom which seemed to function as a corridor. You could have held a concert in it. I was frightened by an instant screech as a lady I half recognized wafted to greet me.
“It’s my lucky Libran!” She enveloped me. Perfume cut off my air supply. Something licked my face. I realized there were three of us in there, one a minute dog. “I’m so glad you could come, my dear. Chanel? Bring this gentleman his favourite drink this instant!”
“Yes, Mrs. van Cordlant!”
A maid in full fig—I didn’t say hello to Chanel—slicked the doors to and wheeled a tray of drink after us. The flat spread into the distance. Windows showed Central Park, a lake, the scaggy tops of edifices and expanses of lovely sky.
Mrs. van Cordlant dragged me to a settee and shoved me down. She’d not been this decisive when I’d given her a cent to get rid of her on board the Gina. Then, she’d seemed driven to distraction. Now she was practically on top of me. Enveloping breasts seemed everywhere. I struggled to breathe.
“Just tea, please.”
Chanel almost staggered with shock, but was a game girl and left us to it.
Mrs. van Cordlant eyed me eagerly. “How long have you been clairvoyant, my dear? Was it from birth?”
“Er, well —”
“I agree, Lovejoy! My astro-psychic—been with her years—had no notion! —until she was struck by lightning in South Carolina. Can you imagine?”
“Good heavens,” I said gravely, thinking she was a right nut. The bloody dog, a King Charles the size of a shrew, was trying to hump my foot. I tried to disengage without booting it into the Guggenheim.
She was eyeing me admiringly. I felt odd. Admiration hadn’t happened since I’d landed.
“Do you want repaying now, Lovejoy, or shall we take care of the business in hand first?”
“Repaying?” I brightened. Then I remembered I’d only given her a single cent. Repayment on that scale was out.
I rose, frostier than her commissionaire, and toe-flicked her hound aside.
“Mrs. van Cordlant,” I intoned. ”If you imply that I would demean myself by accepting repayment for the small service I did you, I’m afraid I must decline.”