For
Lovejoy
CHAPTER ONE
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IN antiques, everything is women.
Everything else is America.
I’m a convert to America. Like a nerk, I’d always assumed the Olde Worlde was a cut above the Yanks. Now? Now, I can’t honestly see why they bother with the rest of us. They’ve got everything. Like beauty. Antiques. Wealth. And, strangely, innocence. So if you’re a confirmed Ami-hater, better swap tins quick for some improving literature, because this story’s how I fell in love with the place through the genteel world of antiques — meaning the hard way, via murder, robbery, fraud, larceny.
Antiques make you live that way. I’m an antique dealer, every breath I breathe.
I’d been in New York three days, and seen nothing but hurrying crowds. I worked in a bar eatery. From nothing, I’d already worked myself up to the lowest of the low.
THE Benidormo Hotel was as cheap as dinge could make it. The dozy bloke at the reception desk—a couple of planks flaking paint — made me pay a night’s advance. His job was watching quiz shows. I tried to sound American, wrote my name as R. E. Lee, didn’t tell him I’d just arrived from Hong Kong with nearly nowt, and found the right floor by trudging because I mistrust lifts.
A bird saw me in the gloomy corridor, a place for assassins. She was pleasantly laconic, overpainted. A little lad trailed her. I’m hopeless about kids’ ages. Seven, eight?
“Can I help?”
“No, thank you.” The key tag said this was it.
She followed, stood looking from the doorway. “I mean can I…
I gauged her. This young, they should be at home worrying about term exams. “Unless you know where a job’s going.”
She appraised me more frankly than I had her. I felt weighed. “What can you do?”
“Anything.”
“That means you can do shit,” she said elegantly. I was trying to appear cool and streetwise, but women can always suss me. “How long’re you here?”
“Until I get enough to travel. I’m from California, studying in England.”
“Don’t give me shit.” She made up her mind. “I’m Magda, next door. No banging the walls when I’m working, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” That didn’t sound slick New Yorkese. “Sure,” I amended quickly. “Lovejoy.”
She nodded. “Whatever you say, Mr Lee. You’re weird, y’know that? Try Fredo. Manfredi’s. He kicked a counterman.”
“Fo’ crackin’ n’ smackin’.” The little lad rolled his eyes to show drug dementia.
How had a kid this young learned about ecstasy? Magda saw my shock and said, “Zole, meet Lovejoy. Short for Zola.”
“He’s soft sheet,” Zole said with scorn. “So’s Zola.”
Maybe her brother? “Howdy, Zole. What time does Mr Fredo open?
