“Double bastard,” the lawyer muttered a couple of times.
We drove out of Manhattan, some tunnel to somewhere. Wherever it was was sure to be beautiful, leafy, affluent, and baffling as the rest of America. I started scratching, having caught lice from the gaol. I wondered about Busman, Bettune, 74th Street, having my money returned by robbers for nothing. And, of course, why I was a swine to Gordino on account of some wire. And why Tye Dee looked scared for his skin. I was scared for mine, of course, but that was normal.
It was about eight o’clock, the morning rush hour. I drew breath to suggest that I’d best be making tracks for Fredo’s bar, but stayed silent.
IT was more than a yacht. It was a cruiser, white as a goose. Twin masts and striped awnings. They didn’t have vessels like this in the Blackwater at home. This was a cocktails-and-caviar boat, not a coastal slogger ready for gales such as I was used to. It was the only vessel at the small pier.
The crew weren’t uniformed so much as standardized, which was much less reassuring. Only half a dozen of them, but fit and wary. One just stood there in the stern, scanning the distant wooded riverbank and talking quietly into his chest whenever another boat glided by.
I went up the gangplank after Gordino. He was into his windmill mode, the big hello and cheroot, pretending to throw up over the side when the boat rocked slightly in a wash.
“Follow on,” Tye Dee said. He was uncomfortably close behind me.
It was a lovely morning, the sun already up and a few boats plying the water. Cars winked windscreens on tiny roads parallel to shore. A few gulls planed over. Several other yachts were moored further downriver. It felt good to be alive. God, but yes it did. I warmed again to America, not solely because there was Gina Aquilina in a white towelling dressing gown observing our arrival from under an awning on the top deck.
Nicko cooled my pleasure at this nautical scene. His stare was somewhere to the northwest, his voice sibilant. Jennie wasn’t there. Orly was, seething at me as usual.
“Lovejoy’s done well,” Nicko said, “He gets bonused.”
Bonus a verb too? I grinned, but my face wouldn’t play, stood there like a lemon.
“Tye, man.” Nicko heaved a moderate sigh. “About you.”
“Let Lovejoy tell it, Nicko,” Mrs. Aquilina begged. Funny sort of begging, though. Quiet, yet the words piercing everybody’s reluctance. I spoke up, worried about the outcome but avoiding scratching at the lice. Fleas get poems written in their honour. Lice are just misery.
“Why didn’t you warn Tye, Lovejoy?” she asked.
“About the men in the motor? I… I didn’t know if I was wrong.” I’d explained about the tiepin man, his sudden moustache and quick change, his running exit, the signal to the two men. Except I’d tried, and Tye had almost flattened me. I left that bit out.
“Why didn’t you warn Gina?” Nicko asked.
This one was more difficult. A simple lie to save Tye’s bacon was fair, but dare I try the same for Mrs. Aquilina? The space between husbands and wives is a minefield.
“I… I was too slow getting into the motor car, Nicko.”
“He looked like a hobo, Nicko,” his wife said.
“I’d no other clothes, you stupid cow!” I yelled, narked. Then swallowed myself into docility again. “Sorry, missus.”
“Good.” Nicko nodded to the distant shore. “I like that. He lies good.” He thought, glanced at the shore where Tony waited by the limo having a smoke. He wasn’t relaxed, kept looking up at the yacht. “Berto?”
Gordino said, “Lovejoy told nothing down the precinct. But he shoulda got on the wire, saved me a ton a trouble.”
“That’s okay,” Nicko forgave. “I like that, He telled nothing.” He stared at Orly. “He’s filthy. Clean him up, bring him for
Breakfast! Grub on the way! And bonused! I was in some sort of favour, an experience so rare I’d been slow to realize it.
“Who’s the broad?” he asked the river.
“Rose Hawkins, Nicko,” Tye replied for me. “Bookseller. She’s hot for Lovejoy. Has some book job for him is all.”
“Excuse me, er, Nicko,” I ducked slightly as his head rotated. It turned like a gun’s swivel mount in a turret, stopped short of my face, thank God.
Silence, except for seagull sounds by the galley portholes.
“Er, can I ask Mr Gordino to do something? I’d pay—well, owe him, if it’s okay by you.” Mrs. Aquilina had a sudden alert interest, a stoat about to start its rabbit-transfixing dance. “There’s a bloke —guy — in the police station. Can you try to help him? Busman. He was kindly.”
Nicko thought, said okay. Gordino asked, “Chico? Spic? Nigruh? Wasp?”
“I don’t know his surname. He’s just called Busman.”
Mrs. Aquilina stifled a giggle. Nicko’s gaze reached me this time, like a puzzled Last Judgement. He decided I was thick. “Orly. See about Tony.”
Orly nodded, left us for a moment. We all waited. The rest seemed content. I kept clearing my throat, shuffling, whistled a bit until I realized it made me feel more ridiculous.
Two crewmen went down to Tony. He stood on his fag end, almost came to attention as they approached.
