“Tye,” I said over a meal of surreal splendour—Ellie ignored compliments— “I have a secrecy problem.”
He didn’t quite stiffen, but he was expecting Lovejoy Deception Hour. “What things?” he asked. All his food came fried. I’d never met a bloke like him for demanding fried grub.
“It’s between ourselves, okay?” I cleared my throat. “You know Prunella? She’s flying to Chicago, should be there now. I told her to book us in, er, together.”
He nodded, methodical with his fried burger slab thing, inch by square inch, regular as a metronome. His dining habits were admirable.
“So? She’s secretary, right? Doing her job.”
“No, Tye,” I explained. “She and I, er… in Manhattan last night. I’ve said she should meet us. I’ll need a little time for a special… conference.”
“You n’her?” He swigged wine, not breaking his masticating rhythm. “You got it, Lovejoy.” He paused. Three squares of burger accumulated on his plate. I realized he was laughing, possibly an alltime first. “S’long as I know you isn’t going any place.” Al and Shelt laughed along.
I couldn’t get the hang of all that water. There were even ships on the damned thing. I’d thought we were a million miles inland.
“Where are we, love?”
Prunella had a map out in a flash, dropping notes and pencils like a sower going forth to sow.
“The Great Lakes, Lovejoy.”
I looked into the darkness. It was illuminated by a trillion lights, like a city of crystal on a gleaming shore. I shivered. Prunella squeaked I must be cold. I just caught her from upping the thermostat to critical. You’ve never met anything like the heat of an American hotel.
“You know what’s wrong, Prunella? Your country’s just too big, too beautiful, too everything.”
“I’m pleased you like it, Lovejoy. But we’re a little short on history. I’ve heard of your lovely old buildings, traditions —”
I wanted to prove to Tye that we were ensconced in snuggery and up to no good. I chose my time carefully to open the envelope she’d collected from the airport. It contained the first of Easy Boyson’s Sherlock forgeries, just the one page but pretty good. I was proud of him. I concealed it in my folder, told Prunella not to answer the door until I got back, and wore myself out descending the hotel stairs.
A taxi took me from the harbourside to O’Hare International Airport. I was glad to see the end of all that water in the non-dark dark. I’m only used to lakes you can see across.
Magda and Zole were waiting in a nosh bar. I was delighted to see them. Zole was having some sort of row with the manager over a gaming machine he claimed was rigged. Magda was pale and washed out. She looked smart in her new coat and shoes, matching accessories.
“I’m not used to this, Lovejoy. I done as you said.”
“Well did, love.” She’d never been out of New York before.
Zole came and smouldered, eyeing the one-arm bandits. “Hey, Lovejoy. All Chicago’s fixed.”
“Hey, Zole ma man,” I said. He sneered, joined us. “You got a broad, Lovejoy? Or you aim’t’ be stickin’ Magda?”
I’d almost forgotten how to have a headache without Zole around.
“Play the machines, Zole.” I gave him all my change. He sauntered away, hands in his pockets, head on the swivel.
Magda passed me her envelope. I took it.
“Ta, love. This address is a theme park, whatever that is. There’s a big exhibition of antiques in a barn. Houses, rooms done up like in the nineteenth century. When Zole steals the item I’ve written down, make sure he walks within a few feet of me, okay? On his way out. Stay with him, and don’t steal anything yourself.”
“Will we be all right, Lovejoy?” She hesitated, glanced towards the counter where Zole was having a heated exchange about the food prices. “Only, you heard about our fire?”
“Fire?” I went cold.
“The Benidormo. An hour after we left like you sent round, your room blew a firestorm. Ours went too. A couple’s hurt bad. A man died in the stairwell, burned terrible.”
“The hotel? My room?” No wonder she looked pale.
“I’m sheet scared, Lovejoy. Fires, guns. I had all that crap, y’know?”
“You won’t be, love,” I said, thinking of being followed at Mortdex’s.
“I seed it on the news at the airport. Not Zole.”
I passed her some money. “Love, any time you want to cut out, you can. But I still want your help. Book your flight soon as I leave. Tell Zote nothing except that I want him to steal the antique as a game, to…” I’d worked the phrase out “… to put the bite on somebody.”
She nodded. She’d had her hair done. I said she looked pretty, which made her go hard and call me stupid.
Zole, tact personified, helped matters along by telling Magda she should lay me quick and we could get back to the Big Apple. I stopped Zole trying to filch a woman’s handbag from a table as we left.
“Give my regards to Joe and, er, Gertrude,” I said, bussing Magda a so-long in the main concourse.
“You makin’ them up, Lovejoy?” the little nerk demanded.
“Yes, Zole,” I told him, to shut the little bugger up. We exchanged no further information.
The hotel stairs were a hell of a climb. Prunella welcomed me with relief. We made mutual smiles until sleep rewarded us with oblivion.
WE flew over Illinois in broad daylight, Iowa, into Omaha with me breathless at the spectacle. I thought: This nation had to invent theme parks? It’s one great glorious kaleidoscope. Maybe paradise is already down here, and we’re so busy moaning and grumbling that we can’t believe our own eyes.
With Prunella primly distancing herself from me—I’d agreed to her stern warning that we should not behave as if there was Something Between Us—the flight map showed names I couldn’t honestly believe in. Manchester and Cambridge and Dedham, I’d accept those. And Delhi and Persia and Macedonia I’d take on trust.
“But Hiawatha?” I asked Tye. “Peoria? Des Moines? Oskaloosa? Sioux City? Come on, mate. Who’s making them up?”
Prunella’s secretarial training came to the rescue. She had an hour’s lecture on name-lore programmed deeply within, and was still explaining why Skunk River was not a myth when we separated at the airport.
The helicopter seemed so small. I’d only ever been in one before, and that under atrocious circumstances. I still get the shakes, and was silent for the whole flight, a little over an hour. I always keep wondering why they don’t strap a huge parachute to the bloody things, in case its whirring blades spin off.
We landed beyond a small town that called itself a city, and were driven through woodland and glades, emerging onto a cliffy outlook over a river. You’d call it splendid, if you like countryside. The greeting I got I’d have called splendid too, if I liked phony.
“Preston Gullenbenkian,” the mighty orator intoned, fixing me with an intent beam. “I’m yours in the service of the Lord of Hosts.”
“I’m Lovejoy, Reverend,” I said, feeling inadequate, like I’d met Wesley. “You received our —”
Gullenbenkian intoned reverently, as if I was a gospel, “Your word was heard, Lovejoy. And acted upon.” He paused, hand on his heart. “It’s my way. I want you to know that.”
We were outside a pile—as in vast unbelievable palace. I’d thought Blenheim was still in the UK, but here was its isomer overlooking that panoramic view.
“The mighty Missouri, Lovejoy.” He raised his eyes to Heaven. “We must give thanks to the Lord for all His generosity.” He dashed off a quick prayer.
I dither in the presence of holiness. He was a tall, suntanned man, the sort who always get lead parts in Westerns. But his gear was perfect, his teeth glittering, his skin oiled and shining.
“And it’s simple Prez, Lovejoy,” he resumed, leading me up the great straight drive. “Sure, I’m in holy orders. But that doesn’t entitle a humble, ordinary man to seize on outmoded elitisms.”