made. But why should I be dumbfounded by the Atlantic’s proximity? And by Long Island’s enormity, its beauty? Glamour is America’s par, wealth an incidental. Everything’s so vast that your eyes run out of vision. Tye Dee was supervising the welcomes—which probably meant seeing they all arrived unarmed—so I’d nobody to ask. Old Sokolowsky had vanished. How strange that he was along, on a fantastic cruise like this. Mind you, the same went for me. Except the old jeweller and me were two of a kind; different bookends, same purpose. Sokolowsky was the experienced gelt merchant, techniques to his fingertips. I was the… the what? Neither Gina nor Nicko had mentioned antiques, which is basically what I’m for. Sole purpose in life. Tye Dee was simply a trusted bouncer, with his thick holster bulging his chest lopsidedly. Orly was Mrs. Aquilina’s “friend” again today.
It was a pleasantly open day, light breeze, rich thick American sunshine. Innocent, fresh.
The little boats shuttled between the shore and us. A small township, its streets open and the traffic casually undeterred by the growing aggregate of Rolls-Royces and lengthy American cars I couldn’t name. How pleasant to live in such a place, I was thinking, when I saw Jennie alighting from a limo with a fat man. They made quite a pair, him flashy and corpulent and Nicko’s lassie slender and pert. Wasn’t I thinking a lot about gelt? Something in the climate.
Fatty and Jennie were the last, the occasion for much jibing from the party on the after deck.
“Hey, Jim!” one voice yelled through the growing music. “Antiques doin’ okay, keeping you late.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Denzie!” the fat man bawled as his boat slowed. “You politicians ride on my back, man!”
Desperate needling, it seemed to me, but it earned a roar of laughter. You can say anything in America, as long as you grin. Orly’s shoulder tap made me turn. I wished he’d stop doing that. Worse, he prodded my chest.
“Lovejoy, go help Bill in the bar. You know how?”
“Yes.”
“Tell Tye to close the rail. Mr Bethune’s always last.”
Antiques, Jim Bethune. Busman had asked about some art dealer, Bettune… Orly shoved me so I almost stumbled.
“Move ass, Lovejoy.”
“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.”
Correction:
THE pace of the Aquilinas’ party was sedate, compared to Fredo’s in full spate. It was noisier, and the grub went almost untouched. I was astonished at the transformations the guests had undergone. They’d changed, instant butterflies, even Jennie emerging gorgeous from the cabins.
Bill the barman was twice as fast as I’d ever be. He was tall, lean, tanned, wavy-haired, the sort I always think must be every woman’s heart-throb, straight off a surfboard. Blokes like him evoke archaic slang.
“Handle the ladies when two come together, Lovejoy,” he ordered. He didn’t tap or prod. I warmed to him.
The women? I went red. Barmen the world over hate women customers. Men are more decided, can be served fast. Women take their time, change minds, negotiate. That’s why sluggardly barkeeps get the slowest jobs. And me a veteran of Fredo’s famed happy hour! I swallowed the insult.
In spite of being narked I slotted in, doing my stuff, trying to remember to maintain that wide American smile. The crowd swelled to thirty, as guests already on board before the influx made their colourful entrances amid hullabaloo. Quite frankly, I admire people who put on a show of style. I mean, it’s something I could never do in a million years. The women were bonny, slim, slick. I’d never seen what I call evening dresses worn during the afternoon before. Jewellery gleamed genuine gleams and antique settings bonged into my chest, but I kept my mind on my job, trying to please. It was a pretty scene. I avoided Mrs. Brandau’s eye, didn’t look at Jennie, tried my damnedest not to lust too obviously after Gina when she queened into the deck arena amid a storm of applause. The men were not my concern.
Denzie Brandau was smooth, suave, your friendly politician. He was perfectly attired, cuffs mathematical and suit impeccable, his manner subtly saying that he was slumming but was too polite to say so. Power anywhere is a threat, very like glamour.
“Hey, Bill,” I said in sudden thought as the bar slackened. Other serfs started circulating with trays of food to encourage the starving. “Am I replacing Tony?”
“Sure are, Lovejoy.” He was shaking a cocktail. I watched enviously.
“I can’t drive.” A lie at home, but true in America.
“Drivers we got. Only here in the bar.”
“That Tony owes me ten dollars,” I invented.
Bill dazzled the ocean with a brilliant grin. “Then you are strictly minus ten, Lovejoy. Like for evuh.”
We chuckled, me shaking my head at the vagaries of fortune. I tapped my foot along with the music, smiling with the peasant’s pride as Fatty Bethune staved off his anorexia by wolfing all the grub within reach. Oh, I was so merry. And my soul cold as charity. Tony was extinct. My fault? I leapt to serve as Sophie Brandau and Gina drifted to the bar asking for Bloody Marys. But a lone neuron shrieked outrage. What the frigging hell did it matter whose fault it was? I get narked with myself. I don’t run the frigging universe. I only live here.
“Lovejoy tends to ignore the ice,” Gina said mischievously. ”Something in his background, I suspect.”
“Is he new?” Mrs. Brandau was distantly bored by serfs.
“Practically.” The hostess took her drink. ”On probation, you might say.”
“I aim to please, madam.” Grovelling’s pathetic, but my job.
The ladies drifted. I turned. Bill was watching me. He wore his professional smile, and spoke softly.
