“Naturally. Look carefully. You’d see that street collectors are every ten yards. How do you think I keep the concession at the ocean terminals, at the Digga Dig? Independent, I’d last less than a minute.”
“Answer a couple of questions, Steerforth?” He said nothing. I asked him about the little leper. “He’s everywhere I look. Once or twice I mistook a look-alike, but mostly I’m sure it’s the same bloke.”
“On the cadge. You were an easy touch. Stay around and you’ll lose that vulnerable aura. Then beggars’ll leave you alone.”
“He doesn’t beg. In fact I had to catch him to give him some money.”
He could offer nothing sensible, or wouldn’t. Nor would he be drawn on Dr. Chao, Marilyn, Fatty, the Triad societies. I already knew that it was his obsession with Ling Ling that kept him clinging to the China Coast.
“Do we have any leeway?” It was the most casual question I’d ever asked in my life. My heart was in my mouth. A lot hung on it. He slightly misunderstood.
“Hardly. We’ve two escort jobs booked tonight—we’ll have to take them back to the ship by eleven o’clock.”
“I meant afterwards.”
He seemed pleased at my enthusiasm. “Pick up spare clients? Yes. As long as our percentage goes in.”
“What if I fancy a go on my own?”
Surprised, he said fine. “Got one lined up?”
“Maybe, maybe not. One other thing. About a library.”
Curious but reassured, he told me about the excellent City Hall library, Hong Kong side.
It had good reference sections and quite a lending program. I thought while he went to shower himself ready for the evening.
Antiques, to be faked at the uttermost, must be gigantic. Not in size, I haste to add, but in concept. I mean, if you’re going to risk your life on one throw of the dice, better forge the crown jewels than a Woolworth tiepin. Like, when Konrad Kujau decided on forgery, he really went for broke and produced Hitler’s entire diaries by his own lily-whites and nearly fooled everybody. I approve. Fakes are horses for courses, true, but the rule is “think big.”
That’s why I thought first of George Chinnery. He was the famed Victorian Artist of the China Coast. Even in 1970 you could get his lovely water-colors of Hong Kong and Canton life for fifty pounds. Now the prices are astronomical. Faking a Chinnery might therefore bring fame and fortune, since he’s not well documented. Fake him twice, still okay. And thrice. After that, well, dealers would begin questioning. You can see the dilemma. If Chinnery was more prolific than had been thought, they’d argue, then his works are overvalued. If not, then the newly appearing Chinnerys are possibly fakes, and the legitimate demand goes kaboom. Fakery is self-limiting. Therefore, no. I was downcast at my decision to ditch a scam based on Chinnerys or some similar antiques.
It was tempting, but fear stiffened my willpower. Still, at least I’d started cerebrating in the right direction. This calmed me so much I remembered to phone in to Marilyn’s malachite number on the dot like a parolee.
“Wotcher, Marilyn,” I said. “I’ve been hearing all about your Cantonese superstitions.”
“Indeed?” she said.
“You’re all ghosts and gambling.”
“Mr. Steerforth has a very slanted view of our world, Lovejoy,” she said sweetly. “Thank you for ringing.”
As we left to report for escort duty and collect our clients from the ocean terminal, Steerforth mentioned quite casually that the Typhoon Two signal was up on Stonecutters Island.
“Oh, aye?” I said, and thought nothing of it.
21
« ^ »
LOVING’S generative in every sense. I catered for a lovely Colombian lady—God, talk about talkative—who between conversations made businesslike love, drenching us both in scent. Her earrings, gold scythes, nearly had my ears off. It was a mess because I couldn’t understand a word and she knew no English. It didn’t stop her talking. During round two I began remembering Montgomery. He’s an old bloke in Suffolk who prints fake old maps—mostly Cotterell’s 1824 editions from Bath—honestly almost as good as the originals. It’s his regular income. In fact he does so well I’m occasionally astonished to come across collectors without a set.
Not quite the sort of scam I was looking for, but getting closer. I showed how pleased I was to Carmelita. She was still expressing her pleasure in words as she left two hours later. A real pro. She left me an LP record, signed, with her exotic photo on the sleeve, and tipped me a gold bracelet. I’ve never worn anything like that in my life. Could sell it, I suppose. Don’t women surprise you? A world-known pop singer, it seemed. I knew her job would have been something with vocal cords.
Then again, I thought before tottering down to rejoin Steerforth’s next assignment, fake-jewelry scams can be stupendous. The trouble is they’re easily spoiled. I remembered a bloke we call Willynilly, from Norwich, nice chap with a pot leg from a farm accident. Willy had this idea of finding a medieval hoard of jewels near Saxmundham. It’s called a rainbow job in the trade, after the leprechaun’s pot of gold.
Five of us contributed gold pendants, rings, pins. I made a pair of lovely Anglo-Saxon beast-and-bird brooches, using the original medieval goldsmithing techniques. Willynilly made a killing, selling to unscrupulous dealers. He was assisted by law, of course—he put word around that he wanted to avoid a coroner’s Treasure Trove court so had to sell without invoices, all money in used notes, a right carry-on (meaning no legal comeback if the purchasers recognized the fakes). Willynilly was rumbled, though. It was his own fault. So impressed was he with the success of his neffie scheme that he started making crude casts of our fakes. Silly sod. This turned his unique “antiques” into a mass production rip-off. Angry German dealers exacted restitution, so police became aware of the uproar, so Willynilly’s still doing time for tax evasion, forgery, heaven knows what.
Sadly, I rejected the notion of a rainbow job. Too vulnerable. Moreover, I couldn’t risk any comebacks such as exposure of the fakes by horrid laboratory investigations. I gulped and decided to think again.
