I waited, admiring the chandeliers — modern gunge — and the wealthy woe school of dross decor, the sort to impress. There must have been some three hundred people glitzing away, every shade and shape God made. I stood on the landing, ducking and weaving at one side of the entrance as if anxiously looking for my party.
“Lost, sir?” a flunkey asked.
I grinned. “The Game’s my home, man. Alhambra one-four-zero my number.”
“Alhambra? They’re all up front, by the dais. You just made it. Here come the announcements now.”
Nicko was tapping the microphone, Gina—not Jennie—gorgeous beside him. I kept still beside the entrance. There were plenty of people, milling, snatching last-minute drinks, plying others. Excitement was in the air. A band was fading with slight rattles, clashes, trying for their enemy silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen—friends all!” Nicko’s voice had octaved echoes and an after whine. “Welcome to the nineteenth California Game!”
People whooped, applauded, crowded closer round the dais. I could see Jennie, Melodie, Epsilon, Monsignor O’Cody, the Commissioner, Denzie and Sophie. No Moira, no Kelly Palumba. Charlie Sarpi was there, but less good- humoured than the rest. And astonishing me by his presence, tanking on booze and—twice his natural hue of grue, Fatty Jim Bethune of antiques fame.
“We are gathered here—” Nicko paused for the shrill screams of laughter as Monsignor O’Cody waved to acknowledge the applause— “as guests of the Californians, for which our eternal gratitude.”
Applause, whistles, yells, jokes. Nicko stayed the congratulatory riot. He was a consummate crowd-handler. Should have been a policeman, I thought wrily. My heart was thumping, blood shushing my ears.
“As last year’s winners, we poverty-stricken New Yorkers will —”
Pandemonium, ladies stamping the floor and screeching, their men howling affable insults.
“—Will lead. All sectors have already nominated their players. Observers in the galleries as usual, please. Ladies and gentlemen—the Game’s on! Go go go!”
The elegant throng crushed the far exits. Two, beside the central dais. I hung back, finding my mark. They were an intense, less than jubilant, cluster of half a dozen who didn’t scrum forward with quite the same rapture. I strolled up, grabbed a wine from a side counter, but only after checking the half-dozen wall bars were free of Manhattan familiars.
“Don’t you Californians praise your traffic to me ever again!” I exclaimed, grinning at a woman shut into a mass of emerald slab silk. Her jewellery was dazzling, but not antique.
“Had difficulty?” She wasn’t into the group discussion. I’d seen her eagerness to roam. Women love a party because excitement rules within bounds that they can change any time. “We’re Florida, incidentally. Jane Elsmeer.”
“Raising the ante?” I chuckled, took a swig. “Tell your friends to throw in the towel. Lovejoy’s the name.”
“Hi. You’re confident.” Her eyelashes batted. I nearly had to lean into the wind they created.
“You’re exquisite, but I fear for your bank balance.” We were all drifting down the room as the crush lessened and the crowd thinned through the exits. “We got over twenty times our last year’s gelt.” I smiled into her astonishment. “That do you?” I took her arm. “Jane, honey. I’ll see you don’t starve, okay? Come to Lovejoy. Nicko’s got my number.” I chuckled, squeezed her hand.
“Twenty?” She glanced over to her people, still debating. “Is that possible?”
I said soulfully, “With eyes like yours, Jane, I’ll let you hear more any time.”
Her hand held me back. “No stake’s more than double, is it? I didn’t really listen to the announcement, but —”
“Difference between two and twenty’s zero, right?” I laughed. Ushers were begging us tardies to move into the Game arena. “Twenty, God’s truth. See you in there, Jane.”
I strolled down the emptying salon, nodding and saying hi to barmen and generally being a pest. I hoped I’d done enough.
In a mirror I saw Jane Elsmeer talking to her Florida syndicate. They were shooting looks my way. I did my act with another glass, and was almost last in. But not quite last. One of the Floridans hung back even more, and made sure he was standing immediately behind me at the last second, as the doors closed on the gloaming of the Game.
AN AQUARIUM. Not really, but like that.
We, the watching crowd, were rimmed round a glass-enclosed balcony. Down below, a boarded arena with one great central table covered in green baize. It was oddly reminiscent of a snooker championship, except with the audience arranged in sloping crystal. We were in semi-darkness. The arena below was brilliantly lit.
Our gallery ran the full circumference. It was difficult to see the faces of the crowd though I searched among them for the Manhattan lot. Glad of the gloom, I edged along, casual pace by casual pace. Happier still to see the avid concentration of everybody staring down into the Game arena.
It was cleverer than I realized at first. The table’s wide surface could be seen from every position in the gallery.
Below, Nicko was chatting to three blokes, all as important, all as cool. Power emanated from their stances. One was so fat he should have been a joke. Except for his stillness you’d have passed him over without a thought. But creatures aren’t stationary. Nature says move, a sign of life. So we fidget, shuffle, cough in church, look round when the movie hits a dull stretch, try not to yawn when our loved one’s going on and on about her damned row with that parking attendant.
Except this bloke stood. You could have drawn round him in a gale, he was so static. Which is another way of saying he was a hunter. Fat, okay. Nobody taking much notice of him, okay too. But he was the frightener. The man.
“Okay everybody!” Nicko’s voice on some concealed intercom made me jump a mile. Everybody else started
