The doorbell brought nobody. I worked the three keys—no flies on Joe Shamoon—and let my breath out slowly as no dogs, pets, families came forward with fast-fade grins.
It was a small place, as America goes. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living space with a view of the seafront, and quite a pleasant small balcony with chairs bleaching contentedly in the sunshine.
And Nicko.
Behind me the outer door opened gently, letting the verandah curtains waft out, then closed sibilantly. Tye Dee and his goons, doubtless. I was suddenly so tired. All for nowt, my exertions of last night—or the night before last? I’d lost a day somewhere.
“Wotcher, Nicko.”
He laid aside his book, Moss’s The Pleasures of Deception, I noticed with curiosity. He nodded, painstakingly lit a pipe. I watched, the old craving coming as always. I once gave a pipe up, still hanker after the ritual. The swine drew in, pocketed his pouch, stubbed the bowl, did the whole, what did they say hereabouts, enchilada?
“Wotcher, Lovejoy.” He managed it, with the vicious shark grin of a born killer. “We gotta change words.”
“What’s the point?” I couldn’t help being bitter. I should have taken my chance, let the pig die instead of blowing the damned thing to smithereens. Served him right, the murdering —
“You got work to do for us, Lovejoy. Antiques.”
Well, maybe his killer’s grin was friendly.
“Eh?” I might spin the talk out and make a dash for it, hide out somewhere among my geriatric pals on the waterfront.
“We’d no idea about antiques, art, that kinda stuff, being the scale you showed.” He leaned forward, the pipe smoke driving me mad. “Deal, Lovejoy?”
“Deal, Nicko.”
“You work for us three months, okay? Then you go.”
His features were affable, but knowing. What a pleasant bloke, I thought after quick revision.
“Hang on.” I dredged up a score of suspicion. “How’d you know where to find me?”
“We planted Joe Shamoon’s stuff on you. Easy. Poor Joe’s in surgery. He’ll make it—until his wife learns the circumstances of his, uh, accident.”
In some helicopter. I remembered being lifted, flying, people cutting my clothes, lights swirling.
“Nicko.” My head was aching. I’d had no rest except for hospital, and their idea of quiet’s to clash cymbals all bloody night. “Who’s this we?” He’d just been slain by the Game-syndicates for losing. I’d heard it called, while Esmerelda and I’d been making smiles. Optimism’s not got staying power like pessimism.
He waited, smiling at the people behind me. “Got it?” he asked at last.
“Gina?” I said.
She came round, smiling, sat across from me with the sun-filled verandah window playing her advantage. She looked good enough to eat with honey, except you wouldn’t need the honey.
“Gina.” I make it a non-question.
“In one, Lovejoy. Well, in a coupla hundred, give or take.”
“You’re police? Or crooks who turned coats?”
“You got it. Federal switchers. We got watchdogs, so we play ball.” He was wondering what I’d guessed. I helped him.
“Why’d you pull Tye and the hoods, let me get killed?”
“You did too good, Lovejoy. We want control of money routes, not new shark routes everywhere.”
So I was to be part of their control. At least I’d be alive. Except that wasn’t enough.
“It started with drugs pure and simple, Lovejoy.”
“Not pure, not simple.” Gina was gentler but more implacable. “Ice, heroin for the post-crack sinks, anything to double on, at any cost.”
“The Drug Enforcement Agency started us in, Lovejoy. The Game was dominated by them and the junk bonders and Savings-Loan defrauders. It used to be little old currency swappers.”
“Days of innocence,” Gina said. She could arrest me any day.
“You showed us a new line, Lovejoy.” Nicko went slowly to the window, gestured for somebody to come, but take their time. “Though we’d learned plenty of other new lines. Property, hacks on harbours, airports, commodities, information tapping, computer miking, showbiz, religious flakes, lotsa old stuff. You showed us the power of antiques.” He turned, curious. “How come we didn’t see it before you came, Lovejoy?”
“You trusted reputations, Nicko. like famous auction houses —you think the great Fake exhibition at the British Museum could have come about without them? Or that Echt Vals Real Fake Exhibition a decade ago in Amsterdam? Or that terrorists aren’t a part of the antiques game, robbing simply to sell or ransom. You should read about Istanbul’s go-betweens.” My tone was growing bitter, hating the way antiques get it every time, treated like dirt except when money gets quoted.
“We don’t miss much, Lovejoy,” Gina said.
I rounded on her. Somehow I was standing. “Much you know, you stupid bitch. You miss the nose on your face. Can’t you see that in antiques there’s no suck thing as theft? Oh, there’s fraud all right, tricks a-plenty. But theft? Antiques laugh at it.”
“Prove you weren’t just a lucky bastard, Lovejoy!” Nicko was pointing at me.
“Shall I?” I yelled, in fury now it was all falling into place. “Shall I, you legalized murdering sods, the pair of you? Shall I? Seeing you let poor old Sokolowsky get crisped just to stay in with the syndicate? Shall I? Seeing you let Bill get run down for the same reason? Seeing you were willing to have me shot down, when they missed burning me in the Benidormo hotel blaze?”
He backed down, with an effort. “Some things have to be, Lovejoy. It’s a war we’re in. People get killed in wars.”
“Aye, you murderous pig, but not always the right ones.” I was so mad I couldn’t see for a sec, just stood there shaking. Magda and Zole could have died in that alley. Worse, so could I. Just like that Tony off the Gina, during my introduction to the whole rotten business. I just didn’t know who was right or wrong any more. Both sides played as dirty. I was so frigging tired, worn out.
“I’ll tell you,” I said dully. “Think back. That Gardner Museum theft in Boston—what was it, quarter of a billion, yesterday’s giveaway prices? They stole Vermeer, Rembrandt, ultimate antiques. Tot up the thefts of antiques for that and the previous four years, it comes to four billions, yesterday dollars.”
“And there’s no such thing as theft?” Nicko scoffed. The curtains wafted out. This time I didn’t hear the snick of the latch. I was past caring.
“You think you’ve proved me wrong? The Japanese Yakuza, the Mafia, all the terrorists and extortionists in the world know different. Heard of such a thing as the Statute of Limitations? Most countries have one. Time has a habit of passing. In a couple of years Monet’s Impression Sunrise, stolen from the Marmottan Museum, Paris, will emerge. The thieves can market the damned thing, immune by law. It’s legal now anyway—Japan’s statute of limitations is only two years.”
Gina asked, “Hasn’t it been recovered?”
I stared. I honestly don’t believe these people. “Aye, love. Fourteen times! Each time’s the one true genuine one.” I explained to ease their perplexity, “You see, love, once a special unique porcelain, bronze, ancient vase, piece of one-off furniture, painting, is stolen, there’s very little to go on to tell if what’s being offered for ransom is the one true original. Or a fake.”