The Great California Game

reflection in a shop window. He was behind me, closing casually but fast. One flash of a passing police car’s blue was all it took. I paused to let him catch up, not looking.

“Wotcher, Bill. Not dead, then?” Now I wish I’d not said it.

“Good eyes, Lovejoy.” He was amused, cool, in charge. As a luxury yacht barman, I hadn’t been certain. One look on this street and I had him sussed.

“All the better for seeing you, officer.”

He paused to let some theatregoers pass, chasing taxis. “You have two ways, Lovejoy. Out, or in. Either way, you’re recruited.”

Another job? Three, or was it four? Maybe the letters in my pocket were offers from Paramount. I suddenly wanted to be in that museum Rose had taken me to, safe among antiques where life was simple and any other Homo sapiens was a foe.

“Who’re we against?”

“Everybody, Lovejoy. Far as we know.”

A three-star general, a Monsignor, antiques magnate, bullion heiress, bankers, drug handlers, property baronesses, television moguls… They’d all been there. Plus politicians, and somebody the guests had called Commissioner. As in police?

“I’d come like a shot, Bill. But I’m on my way to a job.”

He was amused. “That Sherlock gig? We know all about that, Lovejoy. What we don’t know is what it’s for. Suppose you find out from Miss Hawkins and tell us, huh? Your first assignment.”

“Sure,” I promised. One more tyranny’s nothing to a serf. “How’ll I contact you?” As if I ever would.

“You agreed too fast, Lovejoy.”

I was so tired. “Look, Bill, if that’s your real name. I’m in a cleft stick. You’re in the law. You’ve given me orders. I’ll comply. Now leave me alone. I’ve a chance of seeing a bird for a few minutes’ quiet nooky.”

“Phone number in your pocket, Lovejoy.” He moved off, blending expertly among pedestrians. I thought I saw him fade through a doorway, but couldn’t be sure. It was a card with a typed phone number. I walked on, head down and thinking.

Tyrants. It’s all very well for them. Even among other tyrants they can make a living. It’s us that catch it. I paused, hurried on and found a phone. I caught Fredo at the bar. He sounded a little breathless, relieved it was only me.

“Fredo? I need Gina’s phone number.”

“Christ, Lovejoy!” He spoke off phone to somebody. I heard a woman’s offended expletive, a door slam. “I can’t, Lovejoy. Even a dickhead like you should know the score by now.”

“Listen. Gina said I was to report in. What must I do, send a carrier pigeon? Tell me Nicko’s, then. Or Jennie’s. It’s urgent.” I hesitated for only a second, opted for betrayal. “That barman, Bill. He’s police. Asked about Moira Hawkins.”

“Wait, wait.” He came on in another second, asked where I was ringing from, and finally gave me a number.

While the traffic rushed past and people tried to hustle me, I got it picked up first ring.

“Hello? This is Lovejoy. I need to speak to Gina, please.”

“Jennie, Lovejoy. Why are you ringing this number?”

I explained I’d got it from Fredo. “I was ordered to report to Gina.”

“What is it?”

“Bill. The barman on the Gina, remember him? He’s a bobby. He’s just asked me to spy on the Hawkins family.”

“Bobby? You mean police?” She made me repeat his every word. I did, almost with impeccable accuracy.

“Look, Jennie. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do any more.”

“You did right, Lovejoy. Just behave normally. Leave things to me.”

“Look,” I started to tell the phone, but it was dead and the queue was threatening my life. I escaped.

SOME things go wrong, don’t they. Had I caused them to, telling Jennie about Bill? Fredo didn’t matter. Anyhow, he was only interested in making smiles with Della.

Zole was in my room. I looked at the key in my hand. I’d had to unlock the door. He was eating a hamburger and watching a small colour television from the bed.

“Hey, Lovejoy ma man. This gasket’s gonna blow.”

A cop chase, to gunfire. “The hotel management upping its image?” I got my soap and towel, still damp from morning.

“You talk sheet, Lovejoy. It’s yo’ present, y’know?”

He still didn’t think much of me. I went the length of the corridor, washed, did a weary shave, and returned as Magda saw a client off the premises.

She came with me. “You’re great with Zole, Lovejoy. He’s talked about nothing all day, except how pleased you’d be with the set.”

“Look, Magda.” I hated to say it. ”How did Zole come by it? Might it have been, well, stolen?”