The Great California Game

REDONDO Beach was the second of the two addresses. It was a low condominium block alongside the seafront road. Joggers were scooping their feet the way they do when finally the taxi dropped me by the sand. Sunshades and the weirdest collection of parasols adorned the coast in numbers I’d never seen before.

I tried dialling both of Joe’s homes, in case he should answer and I’d get myself arrested. Also, I was suddenly more worried about turning up, a strange husband for an alarmed wife, maybe a set of babes all wondering who the new geezer was. No answers.

One thing about California, you can wait on a beachside without giving rise to suspicion. It’s what the ocean’s for. I sat in a line of reminiscing geriatrics from the Bronx and New Jersey and Brooklyn all saying how they’d like to go back but who the hell wanted snow and better get mugged occasionally in sunshine than in an alley filled with ice and falling masonry, huh? Some, especially the old birds, had reflectors shooting hot sunshine up from below under their chins. They wore false white paper noses and a ton of cream. They all agreed retirement was great. I said I could see that, listened until the guard in the condominium block got up from his stool under the awning and went inside. I said so-long to my gang and quickly entered, fiddling with the keys, then climbing to the third floor.

The doorbell brought nobody. I worked the three keys—no flies on Joe Shamoon—and let my breath out slowly as no dogs, pets, families came forward with fast-fade grins.

It was a small place, as America goes. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living space with a view of the seafront, and quite a pleasant small balcony with chairs bleaching contentedly in the sunshine.

And Nicko.

Behind me the outer door opened gently, letting the verandah curtains waft out, then closed sibilantly. Tye Dee and his goons, doubtless. I was suddenly so tired. All for nowt, my exertions of last night—or the night before last? I’d lost a day somewhere.

“Wotcher, Nicko.”

He laid aside his book, Moss’s The Pleasures of Deception, I noticed with curiosity. He nodded, painstakingly lit a pipe. I watched, the old craving coming as always. I once gave a pipe up, still hanker after the ritual. The swine drew in, pocketed his pouch, stubbed the bowl, did the whole, what did they say hereabouts, enchilada?

“Wotcher, Lovejoy.” He managed it, with the vicious shark grin of a born killer. “We gotta change words.”

“What’s the point?” I couldn’t help being bitter. I should have taken my chance, let the pig die instead of blowing the damned thing to smithereens. Served him right, the murdering —

“You got work to do for us, Lovejoy. Antiques.”

Well, maybe his killer’s grin was friendly.

“Eh?” I might spin the talk out and make a dash for it, hide out somewhere among my geriatric pals on the waterfront.

“We’d no idea about antiques, art, that kinda stuff, being the scale you showed.” He leaned forward, the pipe smoke driving me mad. “Deal, Lovejoy?”

“Deal, Nicko.”

“You work for us three months, okay? Then you go.”

His features were affable, but knowing. What a pleasant bloke, I thought after quick revision.

“Hang on.” I dredged up a score of suspicion. “How’d you know where to find me?”

“We planted Joe Shamoon’s stuff on you. Easy. Poor Joe’s in surgery. He’ll make it—until his wife learns the circumstances of his, uh, accident.”

In some helicopter. I remembered being lifted, flying, people cutting my clothes, lights swirling.

“Nicko.” My head was aching. I’d had no rest except for hospital, and their idea of quiet’s to clash cymbals all bloody night. “Who’s this we?” He’d just been slain by the Game-syndicates for losing. I’d heard it called, while Esmerelda and I’d been making smiles. Optimism’s not got staying power like pessimism.

He waited, smiling at the people behind me. “Got it?” he asked at last.

“Gina?” I said.

She came round, smiling, sat across from me with the sun-filled verandah window playing her advantage. She looked good enough to eat with honey, except you wouldn’t need the honey.

“Gina.” I make it a non-question.

“In one, Lovejoy. Well, in a coupla hundred, give or take.”

“You’re police? Or crooks who turned coats?”

“You got it. Federal switchers. We got watchdogs, so we play ball.” He was wondering what I’d guessed. I helped him.

“Why’d you pull Tye and the hoods, let me get killed?”

“You did too good, Lovejoy. We want control of money routes, not new shark routes everywhere.”

So I was to be part of their control. At least I’d be alive. Except that wasn’t enough.

“It started with drugs pure and simple, Lovejoy.”

“Not pure, not simple.” Gina was gentler but more implacable. “Ice, heroin for the post-crack sinks, anything to double on, at any cost.”

“The Drug Enforcement Agency started us in, Lovejoy. The Game was dominated by them and the junk bonders and Savings-Loan defrauders. It used to be little old currency swappers.”

“Days of innocence,” Gina said. She could arrest me any day.