The Great California Game

“Look at the league tables,” I said, doing that American shrug —a simultaneous grin and nodded headwag which encourages instant denials.

Did Gina now expect me to phone every evening with my progress report? There couldn’t of course be any progress. There never is on a grailer. There can’t be, for they’re all myths, dreamt up by mystics and purveyors of illicit scams. You can invent some yourself. Do it today: precious diamonds from South Africa bigger than any on earth; limitless gold from the ocean floor; rare antiques in attics the world over. You only have to dream it up, and antique dealers will rush to market it for you. The fact that it doesn’t exist won’t matter. That’s what a grailer is, rainbow gold. I’m not being unromantic. I’m only trying to warn you your friend’s scheme of importing rare tapestries from the Punjab, ten cents a time and unlimited profit, is crud.

“Dallas, schmallas.” I replenished my customer’s coffee while he went wild and starting calling along the counter for allies to set this jerk straight.

I mean, I know an actor who’s fourteenth in line to the Throne. (Incidentally, so does everybody else in the U.K., but we're all too polite to mention it, him being the wrong side of the blanket and everything, and anyway, we all like his TV series, evening Thursdays unless they've changed it.) Well, this right royal bloke could reap the world, if you think of it. He’s a born grailer. Why? Because he could sell his story, his opinions, even his name for vasto gelto, and live plushly ever after. And does he? Not on your life. He simply ploughs the theatres, does auditions, is downcast when he doesn’t get them, rejoices when he does, the whole acting gig.

Why doesn’t he? Because he’s not thick, that’s why. I once met him at an antiques auction. He was bidding for a miniature portrait. I tipped him off that it was on ivory and badly warped. He said ta, slipped me a fiver and we had a bit of a chat. I waxed indignant that the auctioneer—it wasn’t a thousand miles from Sotheby’s, Bond Street —hadn’t sent somebody over to point the defect out.

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” he said, smiling.

“You could have told him,” I said. “Mmmh,” he concurred, “but then what?”

And I saw the problem. His life would be an instant media circus. Reporters would rifle his dustbins. Every female he raised his hat to would be hounded to suicide. He would be dissected in public with that well-known frenzy the media reserve for ante-mortems.

“No what?” the Dallas supporter was asking.

God, I must have spoken out loud. “No way,” I said. “They ain’t got the pitchers.”

“Pitchers is baseball, jerko.”

Hell fire. “Shows how much them Cowboys know,” I improvised quickly. “They’re advertising for pitchers in the Herald Tribune.”

That got a chorus of shouts and laughs. In the middle of it an old and valued customer arrived.

“Hello, Lovejoy.” She was hugging herself.

“Too early for wine, Rose.”

“Coffee, two eggs, toast.”

“Coming right up.” I shot the order through, eyed her. “I had to go on a visit, love. Sorry.”

“Back just in time, Lovejoy. We’ve located a precious heap of paper for you.”

I stared. “You have?” I’d never heard of a grailer actually becoming reality. Fakes do, of course. Trillion to one, I gave mental odds. News indeed for Gina; she was so endearing it’d be a shame to disappoint her.

“Hand it over, then. Let’s have a look.”

“I said located, not obtained.”

Surprise, surprise. I tried to look enthralled, but probably failed, being distracted by Bill who blew my theory about then by suddenly not being dead after all. He went straight across to the nooks, sat and read his paper. I made demented small talk with Rose, the Cowboy fan, a state-of-the-city grouse. Bill left after a quick serving, paid Della on the till. No sign from him. Meantime, Rose had been telling me some cock-and-bull tale about letters received, transatlantic phone calls…

If Bill wasn’t dead, was Tony? I felt a bit let down, decided the entire episode was my spooky imagination. All over. I felt relieved. I smiled at Rose’s charming features. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, as the wicked old treble-entendre has it.

“… to England,” she was saying.

“Really?” How convenient for me, if Moira wanted somebody to cross the Pond and bring it over! “How interesting, Rose.” I looked into her eyes, sincerely as I could while serving a bloke with a breakfast I could hardly lift.

“Hey, I was in England once!” the customer put in, just when I wanted to tell Rose how deeply I’d missed her.

Conversation struck up from all around. No time for chat with desirable ladies. I resumed my loud comments on the telly newscasts, the plight of City Hall, the nation’s finances. And promised Rose when finally she left that yes, I’d be along to the bookshop the minute Fredo’s closed, to discuss plans.

Two letters came for me that morning. One was by special messenger, a bicycle dervish with his head clamped into trannie muffs. The other was handed in by a uniformed chauffeur. I saw Della looking, grinned and told her it was the circles I moved in. I stuffed them into my pocket. More marked money from Nicko’s Pittsburgh robbery? It could do without my fingerprints.

I worked on, surprised to find myself thinking less now of escape Somewhere Else, USA. Magic California? I didn’t realize it then, being thick, but America’s favourite risk was already setting in. I was being amused by the good cheer, the bustle, the aggressive glee all around. And the noise, the sheer willing ease of encounter. That American risk called seduction.

My grotty walk to the grotty Benidormo was interrupted. A few seconds after I’d called goodnights to Fredo and Della, envying as I did Della’s special friendliness towards Fredo this particular evening, I caught sight of a