“Lovejoy!” Instantly down to whispers, with her woman’s instinct for subterfuge. ”What the —?”
“Shhh!” I made myself more frantic than I felt. ”It’s her husband!”
She laughed silently. “Dumb, Lovejoy. She ain’t got a husband, just four exes!”
Four divorces? Melodie wasn’t young, but her turnover rate seemed excessive. “Chanel. I had to see you.”
The kitchen had two closed-circuit monitors mounted above the inner door, and a small wall panel. One showed the downstairs foyer, the other the penthouse corridor.
“Me?” Her surprise melted slowly into a smile. “You outa your skull, Lovejoy? You passed up a fortune there.”
“When can I see you, love? I wanted to, er, date you on the
“Horny bitch,” she scolded angrily. “You watch her, Lovejoy. Come an hour earlier. My room’s down the hall.”
The consol showed the lift gate opening. Two men strolled into view, one lighting a cigarette. The doorbell buzzed, its proximity making me jump. Chanel gestured me to stay and quickly left to answer, smoothing her dress. I waited until the screen showed Denzie Brandau and Jim Bethune admitted, then slid out into the corridor. I fled, the one thing I used to be good at.
Outside, New York’d never have known I’d been up to no good with Mrs. van Cordlant. Everything seemed so normal. Traffic poured about. People tried to jump the red. Pedestrians survived by the skin of their teeth. Shops traded. A siren wailed the American song.
Hack? What stakes, exactly? Kelly had mentioned a game. What game was played by a Church? Police Commissioner? Silver bullion heiress? Property magnate? And on down the queue of wealth. Right down to the Brandaus with their miserable little stake of a supposed manuscript, supposedly now appearing after a century or so, in a manner as yet unidentified.
Thinking, shallow as ever, I posted off Bill’s card to Gina with a note saying it was the phone number I’d reported the night before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
« ^ »
AMERICA’S phones are bliss. Their habit of actually working is very disconcerting: put in a coin, dial and speak to whoever answers. I truly hope it catches on elsewhere. In little over half an hour, I made ten transatlantic calls to East Anglia and London. Cost me an arm and a leg, but I was over the moon. In East Anglia, a public phone is a dangling flex.
“Get through, Lovejoy?”
“Eh?” I wished Zole wouldn’t keep doing that, suddenly being there with his bloody yo-yo. Hearing my name in this exotic paradise was queer enough. “Oh, aye.” I’d told Boyson’s pal I’d ring in an hour. If he wasn’t home and waiting I’d…
“Stay cool, Lovejoy.” Zole was whizzing his damned yo-yo past my ear. It sounded like a mosquito, the sort that wakes you up slapping at air. “Cool’s no fool.”
“Why do you Yanks talk so?” I asked, starting across the traffic with the sudden rush of pedestrians as the green WALK light showed. I didn’t particularly need to cross, but in New York you seize any opportunity. “Gossip’s a trash flash, honesty’s a sleaze freeze.” I’d noticed this as soon as I arrived. A dim actor of notable physique was a punk hunk, a crosstown journey a side ride. All catch phrases.
“You mad ’cos you cain’t talk, Lovejoy.” Whizz, whizz.
“Maybe true, Zole. Coffee?”
We went into a shop I’d never seen closed, perched on stools overlooking the tormented traffic. Zole ordered numerous hamburgers. How had he survived until he’d acquired teeth?
“Lovejoy, you stupid.”
I grabbed him by his tee-shirt. “Listen, you arrogant little sod. Call me stupid again and I’ll —”
“I’m doin’ you favours here, man!” He dusted himself down with dignity. “This is N’York, Lovejoy. You gotta do like N’York, see? Or you don’t make it.”
“Make what?”
He sighed, wading into his grub. Seeing him eat made me hungry so I went and bought two of the nearest things they had to a pasty.
“Like, I say you cain’t talk, you don’t
“I have?” I was curious.
“And don’t pay the fuckin’ phone. You
Magda, phoning Tye? “It’s illegal,” I said, to keep him going. I was learning.
“Legal’s stupid, Lovejoy. Legal’s jess N’York puttin’ you down. I’ll show you.” He looked about for a second, then appalled me by yelling, “Hey, lady! Where’s the ketchup?”
I went red. “Shhhh, you little —”
