The Great California Game

two, except Josephus trundled in like a sleepy troll and Lil, Delia and the rest arriving, hallooing that “Hi, there…”

“In here, Lovejoy.“ Fredo walked with a limp as we made his office. He yelled for coffee through his hatch and got a chorus of cheery rejoinders. God, but morning heartiness is depressing stuff. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

“Lovejoy. You stayed?”

Patiently I recounted my feat of having dozed on the bench during the night. He listened, staring.

“O’Leary was waiting for you to make a break for it.”

“Break?” Run away? As from a robbery…? My mind cleared. “You mean the constable expected me to steal our money?”

Fredo corrected, “My money, Lovejoy. You barricaded yourself in. O’Leary heard. He covered the rear exit.”

I shrugged. So the police waste their time here as well. “Big deal.” I brought out my Americanism proudly.

“Lovejoy. You stay downtown, right?” I still don’t know what Americans mean by downtown. Ask what they mean, they’ll define it a zillion different ways. They know where theirs is, though, which I suppose is what matters. “And you’re new off the boat, right? The money’s right.” He pondered me.

“I know.” This was mystifying. And the outer doors were clicking as New York poured in for nosh. “Look, guv. We’ve already said this twice round. Customers. If you want me to say it a third time, just call, eh?”

Apron, wash hands, and leap into a whirlpool of noisy greetings over the biggest breakfasts you ever could imagine.

Jonie, a lanky lad who shared Josephus’s rotten taste in rotten music, told me Fredo had suffered an accident on Grand Central Parkway, been unconscious all night. Jonie was a merry soul who dressed like a jogger itching to go, laughed at his own joke: “Business worries got him hospitalized, Lovejoy—and business worries woke him right up!” Everybody thought that hilarious. I grinned, quipped that dough worried everybody, got a chorus of “Right, right!” and pressed on serving coffees, shouting orders and making sure the right sauces, pickles, condiments, were on hand for whatever customers lurked behind those mounds of steaming food we served and served. And served.

“LOVEJOY?”

“Evening, Rose.” I was tired by eight. She was in, same stool, had her tunnyfish salad and sliced eggs and coffee and a glass of white wine.

“Want me to buy you a drink?”

I thought I’d misheard at first. “Er, thanks, love. But I don’t drink on duty.” Then I contemplated the alternative, the terrible cinnamon tea of America, and relaxed my rule but insisted on paying for it myself. She frowned slightly, heaven knows why. I got some American white wine.

“Why d’you lot import so much European stuff when yours is better?” I mused between customers, on the principle that compliments stop women frowning. ”Like your American cut glass.”

“Cut glass?”

“Late Victorian. It’s miles better than… er, foreign antiques of that vintage.” I’d caught myself in the nick of time, reminded myself that I was a Yank, not an illegal immigrant hopefully passing through.

“You and antiques. We take in that exhibition?”

“Give me half a chance, love.”

“It’s a date. Tomorrow afternoon?” She saw my hesitation, reminded me tomorrow was Sunday. I agreed with ecstasy. Antiques and time to think? “Then you can concentrate on legit antiques, Lovejoy.”

She smiled, tilting her head towards the lovely woman in the corner who’d captured my attention an hour previously by her accessories. Her purse was a genuine Victorian Belgian gold-mesh chained handbag—I was practically certain it had a garnet clasp and a gold dance pencil on its chain. It may sound silly, but purses and handbags are still among the easier antiques to find. And they’re still relatively cheap (though by the time this goes to press…) I must have stared rather. The woman, aloof from us rabble, actually used a cigarette case with the old Czarist tricolour enamelled between gold mounts. Surely not Faberge, here in New York?

“Lovejoy ma man, Fredo wants you.”

I served one customer a gallon of bourbon (mounds of freezing ice, poor bloke) and left them to it. Josephus took over. He hated this, it stopped him singing because people along the bar talked and he had to answer. Fredo was in his office, ashen now.

“Lovejoy. You gotta do a job for me tonight, y’hear?”

“Tonight?” I was knackered. I’d never thought the prospect of snoring my head off in that grotty little hotel would seem like paradise. But Fredo looked worse than I felt. His eyes were bloodshot and he was slanted in his chair. He was on whisky. “Shouldn’t you be in hospital?”

“I been in hospital, goddammit.” He groaned at the effort, sweat pouring down his face. “A thousand dollars for nuthin’, send you home worse ’n before, for chrissakes.”

He was worrying me. “Look, Fredo. Close Manfredi’s just for tonight, eh? Call your doctor—”

“Lovejoy.” He spoke with drained patience. “You do my outside job tonight, right? Juss do it, ya hear?”

So I got this job, dead on nine. Wasn’t there some old play once by that title, where somebody finishes up shot? It didn’t turn out like that. Not immediately anyhow.

WHEN you’re in some new country, city, anywhere, it’s only natural to want to look, get the feel, be amazed at whatever’s there to be amazed at. Tired as I was, I was impatient to see New York, walk and gawp. So far I hadn’t had a chance. I’d been in two shops — I’d bought essentials, razor, street map and that — plus Manfredi’s Eatery,