buzzing with expectation. “Here’s Vermilio!”
The crowd applauded, which was a bit daft, seeing the arena people couldn’t hear us, though we could hear them. The immense rotund man spoke into a microphone, a surprisingly high voice.
“The successful stakers are the following teams: Alhambra of New York, automatic entrants as last year’s winner.”
The crowd fell silent. I saw a couple of birds near me cross their fingers. We’d all gone quiet. Nobody strolling or pairing off now.
“Renaissance from Chicago. The New Miners from Houston, Texas—is that name for real? Will somebody ask Harry? The Strollers, Philadelphia. The Governors, Washington DC…”
Ten groups had bought places. The names were greeted with stifled exclamations, cries quickly shushed by others hanging on Vermilio’s every syllable. I was enthralled. Somebody nearby was sobbing, whispering about an appeal, third year lock-out and —
“… and last the Dawnbusters of Hawaii!”
Hubbub rose. People congratulated people. Some dissolved in relief. Women squealed more ecstasy than the men. Down in the lit arena Vermilio handed over to a bloke in a plum tuxedo, who began to intone lists of figures for each of the teams Vermilio had announced. Nobody took much notice, though I saw the Florida folk, Jane Elsmeer among them, frozen at one of the panes, storing down with a terrible intensity. I eyed the signed exits, hoping I could make it if it came to a dash.
“The grand total staked on this year’s Game is the highest ever.” The plum-coated bloke raised his pitch by way of bliss, surely the accountant. “It is two point oh nine times last year’s in absolute dollars, ladies and gentlemen!”
The applause was general and heartfelt. I applauded along, smiling absently. People were muttering with some urgency near Jane Elsmeer. I edged nearer the window, apologizing to a lady whose scarlet sheath dress lacked only a Canterbury Cross in gold—even a Regency copy of the Anglo-Saxon would have done.
“You get in?” she asked.
I tore my eyes from her dress. “Oh, I’m an Alhambran,” I said. “I upped our stake twenty-fold. I like your dress, love. Have you thought of combining it with a simpler brooch? I know those Cartiers are fashionable, but a genuine antique —”
She had to amputate herself away from this guff with a low excuse, whispered something to her man. I caught, “… Alhambra’s the Aquilinas, right?” before she smiled, returned to collect more admiration.
The talk round the Floridans was causing some attention.
“Are you particularly interested in old jewellery?” she asked, taking hold with a gamekeeper’s grip.
“My life’s first and only lovelust,” I told her pleasantly. “Though if I’d met you earlier I’d revise my career moves. Hardly any woman can wear genuine antique gems, love. It’s a delight to find one who has the class.”
Not true, of course. Antique jewellery draws any woman’s glory. God knows why they buy expensive modern crud, when antique decoratives are cheaper. It always amazes me —
He saw me. Across the arena, in through the sloping tinted glass opposite, Fatty Jim Bethune saw me. The growing noise, now practically arguments, round the Floridans was attracting attention. It had attracted his.
I waved, smiling. No good shouting round the balcony, but the arena lighting struck upwards, picking those faces nearest the glass.
“It’s him,” Jane Elsmeer was saying, closing. She had a woman’s second dearest wish, total attention. People were following.
“Hello, Jane,” I said. “Do you get to play?”
“Lovejoy. Upped by twenty. He told me.”
“At least that,” I said modestly. “Though I can’t claim to be in on the totalizations finalizationwise —”
And that was that. My feet hardly touched the ground.
THE room felt like a medieval Inquisition chamber. Some houses, even rooms, have an aura as if evil intentions were ingrained by a malevolent hand. In fact, it was to guard against such forces that ancient builders buried holy relics—and sometimes the architect —in the walls. Still done today, except we make polite social occasions of laying the foundation stone.
The man Vermilio watched me come. He was standing by a desk. He was the only bloke I’d ever seen not use a desk for extra authority. The plum-tuxedo accountant was beside him. Nicko was there, staring ominously past me.
Plus a line of goons standing along the panelled walling. Everybody looked at me.
“Lovejoy, huh?”
“Yes.” I advanced, smiling, hand outstretched. “I don’t believe I’ve had the —”
I was stopped by a gesture. “No games, Lovejoy. Talk.”
“What about?” I waited, asked Nicko anxiously, “Nothing wrong, Nicko, is there? I did everything you said. ”
“Mr Vermilio wants that you tell him what you told the Elsmeer broad.” The plum-tuxedo man said the words with an accountant’s terrible pedantry. People come, people go, accounts go on for ever.
“Mrs. Elsmeer? We were talking about the Game. She said she hoped they’d get in, their stake was special. I said ours was twenty times up on last year’s, so we were sure to play.”
“Twenty.” Vermilio sounded like asking for a gun. “Coats?”
“Nicko declared a little over twice last year’s stake for his Alhambra team, Vermilio.” Coats might well be an
