Paid and Loving Eyes

He allowed a fawner to hurtle forward and light his cigarette. His glance swiftly backed the girl out of earshot. “Lovejoy. The reason I invited you is that I hear you have a precious gift. I wish to use it. Would you be agreeable?”

“Use how?”

His expression was nearly amused. “Your gift only works in one way. I know, you see. It is not a skill that can be passed or taught.” His cigarette hand paused, but only for an instant. Two waitresses clobbered furniture aside racing to supply the missing ashtray. I felt the waft of vitriol in the air. They left, to tremble somewhere else, guilty of omission. Jobs would roll.

“You know a divvy?” I was interested.

There’s not many of us. You can always tell people who’ve see it before. Folk who don’t believe are the majority, and simply don’t want to believe.

“Yes, one. He suffered an unfortunate accident.” He shrugged without visible expenditure of energy. I wish I could do that. As soon as I got home I knew I’d be trying to do it in the mirror, quirky smile and meaningful eyebrows. I’d fail. Comes from living near the Mediterranean, I think. “I miss him.”

“For what?”

“His divvying gift worked for most antiques, Lovejoy. Not all types, but enough.” He exhaled smoke. Studious, but it wasn’t scholastic learning. Monetary reflections hung in that smoke, not classicism. He was a roller, not a caring antiquarian.

“Will he get better, your divvy?”

Troude hadn’t called divvying a skill, or an aptitude. Gift. He’d said gift. A believer, all right. Suddenly I wanted him to be a cynic, and me far away from here.

“Alas and alack, regrettably no.” Hither, and alack? Maybe he liked Errol Flynn remakes. Play is life, for the rich. “Our divvy was old, and his gift sadly fading. I immediately started looking for a, forgive me, Lovejoy, a substitute. A full year ago. Even before he… became unavailable.”

“I don’t know if I’m up to doing a lot,” I told him frankly. My hands were sweating. I managed not to shake. That was pretty good, seeing I now wanted to know if he’d killed old Leon in Marseilles. “And I’ve some deals on.”

“Cancel them, Lovejoy.” He was so pleasant, smiling with teeth off a dentist’s advert. “You will be splendidly recompensed. Unless, of course, your display with the Portland was a deception, and you yourself a fraud.”

How did he know about the Portland Vase fakery contest? I smiled. I quite like caution. “I’d have to think about it.”

“I shall arrange to appraise your gift Lovejoy, if you don’t mind. You will be given a generous retainer.”

“Doing what?”

“A small task. Judge a few antiques, maybe move a little antique silver.”

Sounded easy. I often did such jobs, vannies we call them. “Get my old Ruby out of hock, I’ll shift anything anywhere.”

He smiled at my quip and gave his non-shrug shrug. “Ruby? An auto? Very well. There is one small question.”

There always is. I stilled. “Yes?”

A crowd of elegants strolled on to the balcony. They chattered less noisily when they saw Troude, but just as happily.

“You are a northerner, yes?” He was French. Definitely. He’d nearly said oui like they do, the yes a reflex terminal. When I nodded, he said, “Your parents? Grandparents?” He was very intent about it. Still, whatever turns folk on.

“One granddad a wild Irishman from Kilfinnan. One grannie Scotch, from Kinghorn in Fife. A granddad and grannie darkest Lancashire back to the year dot. Mixture, really.”

He relaxed with disproportionate relief. Funny, because grampa talk bores people for miles around.

“That accounts for your gift. A Celtic element. But no French?”

“Sorry.” I did the only sort of shrug I know, a feeble imitation of the real thing. I was thinking what gunge. He declined my offer to write down my address, inferring he already knew it by heart or that his minions would.

Sandy carolled a farewell from the upper balcony as I took my leave. His shriek of laughter made all heads turn. He’d replaced his frog earrings with on-off neon fishes.

“Naughtily nautical, Lovejoy!” he trilled. “You admire?”

I just hoped the electric fishes were not alive. I left, muttering an apology to Troude. He came with me to the entrance to see me off. I swear even the squash balls muted as he passed.

“Sandy is not our most serious Nouvello member,” he said. “Everybody is fond of him though.”

We parted amicably enough. His giant limo took me to town, dropped me off at the Antiques Arcade by the war memorial.

Safe now among crowds of shoppers, I watched the motor recede. I felt vaguely tainted, as if my skin was about to erupt. Troude had come unnervingly close to saying something else instead of Nouvello member. I desperately needed Tinker and a phone. I’d kill Jodie for landing me in all this, silly cow. I saw Almira’s car approaching, and ducked into the Arcade. It’s safer among antique dealers. At least you know they’re sharks and out to get you. Friends and lovers are infinitely worse.

CHAPTER FIVE