I sighed at the memory of what it would be costing me when young Masterson, Eton and Oxford, suaved to his feet and delivered the speech in Brussels. I’d be paying for the rest of my life, if I lived that long.
“An interested party, Mr Mangold,” I said mournfully. “Here’s your bilclass="underline" just get me secretly to Los Angeles, at maximum speed. Add pocket money, and we’re quits.”
He folded the lists away. “When your man has raised Cain in Brussels, Parliament, the European Commission —”
“Now, or I cancel.” I stood, the better to run.
He moved even faster, clambering his desk to wring my hands. “It’s a deal,” he said.
“Plus the phone call.” He unwrung, as if hearing me demand that secret four per cent discount on commission which they allow antique dealers, as a bribe. I explained. “The call I’ll make very soon, from LA, asking you to agree that you’ll donate to me one hundredth of the joint Sotheby-Christie Impressionist sale prices.”
He gaped. “That’ll be a fortune! Mangold’s could never afford —”
“Mangold’s will,” I promised. “Because the Rail Pensions Fund can’t risk scandal. Play your cards, and they’ll switch the sale to you. Surely you can afford one per cent of their gelt?”
Tears filled his eyes. “If that comes to pass, Mr Dulane,” he said huskily, “I’ll give you two per cent”
His mind was orgasming at the thought of failures and suicides among his rivals. I was pleased. I’d hate to see auctioneers mellow. Keep progress at bay, I always say. You know where you are with sin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
« ^ »
MANGOLD did an efficient job. No ostentation, just sent his secretary to conduct me along miles of tortuous corridors. We came out through a shopping mall where a hired saloon waited. A private plane from a small airport beyond Little Ferry, and I had time to think and hope and be relieved the fliers weren’t Joker and Smith.
The loveliness whizzing below brought tears to my eyes, seeing it all being wasted because I was zooming to fabulous California and probable demise. I was heartbroken with pity for Lovejoy Antiques Inc’s stupidity. So I wallowed and planned, and finally decided I’d better be ready for anything, or else.
Which brings me to a little place called Los Angeles.
ONE thing you have to admit about East Anglia is that its villages have centres. Each town has a middle. Every city has an area that definitely is bullseye. Like an idiot, I’d assumed Los Angeles would be similar. I’d actually told Magda and Zole to meet at the railway station, six o’clock every night until I showed up. I’d stay at some hotel “near the town centre”. I remembered using the phrase.
Lovejoy, he dumb. Brains of a Yeti.
For Los Angeles is a tangle of cities, towns, areas, coasts, harbours, suburbs, all by the veritable dozen. I stared down disbelievingly as the massive spread grew beneath us. Strings of motorways wound through cities strewn about the globe’s surface, motor cars streaming along umpteen-lane highways that melded, parted, and emptied themselves into the misty distance where still more cities sprawled. I’d seen rivers of traffic before, never floods.
Just as I thought I’d identified L.A.’s town centre, it was supplanted by another. And another.
Shakily I asked the air lass what this place was. She looked brightly out of the window.
“That’s old L.A.,” she said fondly. “Great, huh? We’ll be landing at one of the airports shortly.”
Get it? One of the airports? I shrank, didn’t want to disembark. I was already lost. I’d thought Los Angeles was a seaside resort. Instead it was a universe.
We landed at a smaller airport near ?Glendale. It was as big as most countries, and took six minutes to slot me into a motor car. I laid low, occasionally peering out. The world was rushing, whizzing to God knows where. The driver was a Turk, who talked of baseball for the twenty or so miles.
“YOU look like I feel, Lovejoy.”
I’d never been so glad to see anyone as Magda and Zole. He’d acquired a skateboard, blew gum between cryptic aphorisms, still swivelled like a periscope poking up from Nautilus. Magda looked what my old Gran called Sunday shod, meaning respectable on the surface but don’t take too much on trust. Her clothes were bright, her face rested into a youth.
“This place scares me, love.”
We were in a self-service near the station. She had found it, said it was safe.
“I’ve already seen two people mugged. In broad daylight.” I waited for this to take effect. Magda shrugged, Zole blew a bubble. “And some of the… girls seem as young as, well, Zole here. One solicited me on a tricycle.”
“I’ll take you round Hollywood and Vine. Some of them blocks beyond Sunset Boulevard you wouldn’t believe, Lovejoy. Two of your friends get themselves happy there.”
“They did?” I asked uneasily.
“Al and Shelt. That Kelly Palumba and her sheet.”
“She dumb. Her man pays dumb dollar.”
“Epsilon,” Magda translated. “Buys for her. She’s stoned.”
“Magda.” It was hard to start, even after a few goes. “Look, love. I’m really grateful…”
I hate saying things like this, especially to a bird, because they’re inclined to feel they have a right to you more than they have a right. If you follow. But when Magda and Zole had come into the station I’d almost fainted with relief. And when she told me she’d done as I’d asked I almost filled up.
“I found Revere Mount, Lovejoy. It’s Malibu.”
The self-service place was enormous. Two women in studs and black leather were jeering by the till, men round them whooping and cheering at sallies. A weathered, frayed old man was slumped at a table, head on his hands. Outside it was almost dark, traffic glaring and snorting for headway. Nobody seemed to be watching us.
“For the Game?”
“Uh huh. They staying every which way, Pasadena, Long Beach, Santa Monica.”
But Al and Shelt were Tye Dee’s two special goons. And Magda’d mentioned them practically with her hello. Which raised the small question of how she’d done so well.
“Where are the Aquilinas?”
“Beverly Hills. They got a house, a battalion of friends.” She told me an address in impossible numbers.
“You’ve done marvellously, love.”
Zole happened to be listening, picked up a vibe of doubt. He’d been strolling among tables, picking leftovers from plates. Habit of a lifetime, I supposed. There’s an old Polish millionaire I know in London does the same. Collects priceless porcelain, but once was a POW.
“Cost us plenny in calls, Lovejoy,” he put in. “And she done favours for free with a agency man, Boyle Heights.”
“Zole,” Magda said in her special tone. He shrugged, resumed his scavenge. “It’s known, Lovejoy. Society gossip on TV, convention talk.”
“They know to arrange what’s said, love. They own everything I’ve ever heard of. Can you give me names?”
“It was easy at first. That Palumba broad’d been on the movies once, turkeyed out. She was in the papers. Finding the hotel, getting to know waiters, the lounge hustlers, pretending I was looking for a sister.” She half smiled, grimaced slightly to warn there was no way to postpone bad news. “It’s tomorrow, Lovejoy. Big place. Movie people use it, studios, syndicates, you name it. Night, ten o’clock.”
“Where are you staying?” I’m pathetic sometimes. Had I never been in a strange city before? I sounded like a kid trying to join her team, let me play or I’ll tell.
She hesitated. “I got to pay this guy, Lovejoy. Another time?”
“Fine,” I said, my best smile on. “Look after Zole, eh?”
She shrugged. “It’s what I do, Lovejoy.”
We agreed to part without thinking further, the station to be our meeting place, day after next. After that would be straw guessing. I tried to find something warm and grateful to say. She seemed to wait in expectation, finally collected Zole. We parted. She didn’t wish me luck. And with Zole on hand she’d not need any.