The Lies of Fair Ladies (7 page)

That should do it. The idea is to give them a start. They'll
provide the rest of the lie for themselves.

Joan leapt in on cue. "Oh, darling. You're hopeless!"

For one moment I thought she'd rumbled me. "I know," I
said. More soul, to hurry her. I'd never finish the work at this rate.

"Listen, darling." She'd reached some conclusion, thank
heaven. "I've got lawyers working on a settlement. I'm not going to be
palmed off with pennies ..."

Her conclusion was appalling. She actually thought that I . . . ?
I changed my inward scream to an inward groan.

"Lovejoy?" More bloody arrivals.

"Eh?" I realized I'd sounded joyous, so went somber.
"Yes. I'm Lovejoy."

A man and a woman stood blocking the light. The man said,

"I’m Mr. Carstairs. My wife. An interview." He looked
doubtful. "Is this the right place? Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.? The employment
training ..."

God. I’d forgotten. I'd applied to the Employment, saying I was an
employer willing to train somebody. I didn't actually want the stupid sods to
send me a real live person. I'd only registered for the money. What did the
government want, blood?

"Oh, yes. Could you wait a moment, please?" I let them
retreat, said softly to Joan, "Doorlink. You bowled me over. You just
don't understand."

"Yes, Lovejoy. I do." Belief that she alone understands
is a woman's credo. And nobody credoed more than Joan. She dragged me down to her
mouth. We parted with a plop. "How soon will you be finished?"

"An hour. They're . . . er, Sotheby's Educational
Section."

"I’ll send the car. Love you, lover."

We parted. I'd bought time.

Mr. Carstairs wasn't the Employment Learning Opportunist. It was
his missus, Luna, if you please. There was an ugly little scene. I heard them
arguing hotly.

"It's a dump!" Carstairs said. "He looks off the
road."

"It's my chance, Oliver. I've made my mind up."

A shocked gasp. "Luna. This is a mistake—"

"Oliver. If I don't do it now, I'll never do it."

A bird after my own heart. She knew I was the opportunity of a
lifetime. A discerning bird if ever I saw one.

The lathe treadled into action, so I didn't hear the rest of the
heated exchange. Later I was interrupted by a timid shout that made me jump out
of my skin. I'd forgotten the silly cow.

"Lovejoy." She was there when I came down. She looked
scared, defiantly twisting her handbag strap into gangrene. Oliver was severely
blocking the light. "I'm Luna Carstairs. E.O.T.S.C."

The what? Forty-odd, plumpish, fair, dressed by some 1950s B
feature. I liked her. "Did you bring the paper?"

"Yes." She rummaged eagerly, gave me a letter. I tossed
it aside.

"Right. Sleeves rolled up, Luna. We've work to do."

"Now?" She unbuttoned her coat. Give me strength.

"Metaphorically, love." I shouldn't call her a silly
cow, not right off. "You'll freeze to death out here." I didn't want
an apprentice who moaned about draughts.

"You mean I've got the job?" She was thrilled.

"Insight, Mrs. Carstairs," I said. "I can tell
worth."

Oliver The Indignant left, in some deep-throated engined monster
tethered by the gate. To Luna I explained the most important tasks in her life
for the next four weeks. The first was to brew up, in my special manner.

She had enough money for us to get the town bus, where she had
enough for me to buy us pasties, mushy peas, and chips. Woody's is grot city,
home of saturated fats and antique dealers. Noshing to repletion, I realized
that a lady of Luna's restricted life-style brought a new dimension. She solved
the local scam problem in half a sentence.

"Mahogany's beautiful material," I was saying. She had
an annoying habit of looking about. Getting on my nerves. I had to keep jerking
her attention back. "Oak was king until about 1660. Walnut came anciently
from Persia. Extensively planted, Elizabethan times on. Hence, walnut
furniture— for Christ's sake pay heed!"

"I’m sorry, Lovejoy," she said, startled to vigilance.
She was flying, blue eyes shining with excitement. I was mollified. Enthusiasm
isn't far from passion. With this smart bird the lads'd see I was up market.

"Then mahogany ruled, say 1725 on. Sauce, please." She
passed the sauce. I lashed out a pool of it. True to female tradition, Luna ate
little. She actually picked up a chip on her fork and inspected the damned
thing. The Employment had slipped me some extraterrestrial. "The main
problem for the faker—er, antiques expert restorer—is that mahogany has what we
call thunder shakes. An upset. Fracture across the wood that you can't see
until you've cut into it. Every time you cut mahogany your heart's in your
mouth, wondering if it has one of these concealed cross-fractures—
what the frigging hell's the matter?"

She was all thrilled-to-be-here. The lads were smiling back,
taking the mickey. Was she on the run, or what?

"I'm sorry, Lovejoy. I've never been in one before."

Woody's is a shambles of filthed tables, peeling chrome, reject
lino shredded to catch the settling grease. A dozen bloated dealers were in,
convincing each other they were having a hard life.

"One what?" I was baffled.

"A
dive
," she
whispered conspiratorially, head almost in my plate. I hugged my grub closer.
She had her own, largely untouched. I eyed it. It would hot up pretty well.

"Dive?" I'd drawn Priscilla of the Lower Third.
"This is Woody's, love." It is the least exotic place on Planet
Earth. Woody's barrel gut, fungating triangle of pubic hairs visible in the
fumes of frying crud, adds to the authenticity.

"The
food
, Lovejoy!
Hairs in the bacon!''

"Don't you like it?" I asked, hopeful.

Pause. "It's a little wholesome, Lovejoy."

"Don't give offense, love. I'll try to finish yours."

"Oh, would you, Lovejoy? I really appreciate ..."

Where was I? "Our problem is that tripod table, Luna. They
practically never have a carved top and carved tripod feet. Carved table top
means the feet have got to be plain. Tell me what I've just said."

She repeated it faithfully, solemn eyes watching my reaction. I
mopped my plate with bread, swapped it for hers.

"The second clue. If a tripod table's top is exactly
circular, it's probably a fake. You measure its diameter. It'll have shrunk
since the eighteenth century. Ours is almost five-eighths of an inch out.
Repeat."

"Oh, Lovejoy!" she cried, excited. "To think I was
actually concerned about you!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "What's
the matter? What have I said?"

I managed, "Nothing, love. Just remembered something."

"You've gone quite pale." She foraged in her handbag.
"Have you got a headache? I usually find these tablets—"

"Repeat what I've told you."

"About the table? If you're all right ..."

To think that I was
actually concerned about you
. . . was what Cassandra Clark said,
almost. Joan had finished the word for her—but wrongly. Not
"considering."
Concerned
.
Which equals worried. Cassandra had come because she was worried I would chuck
a spanner in her works. My transparent poverty reassured her. I clearly
presented no threat. But to what? She was rich. I'd seen her at the Arcade, not
long ago. When I'd sussed out Gunge Herod's/Jeff's papal ring. She'd ignored
me, of course. But now? For a brief spell, I'd had her worried.

Whatever I'd been up to—and I wasn't sure what—presented some
threat. Luna had finished her recital.

"Lesson Two begins now, love." I almost added an apology
for chucking her in the deep end.

"Here's a list of local museums, love. I'll expect you to
look at the furniture in them all. Quickly." I finished the grub, rose
amid merry grins from the lads and a blessing from Psycho, our religious nut.

"Who will teach me about them, Lovejoy?"

I pinged the door open, called so-long to Woody. “Teaching
antiques? No such thing. Come on, love. We've a lady to see."

I needed to check on Tits Alors (rhymes with "doors").
She'd be lurking—well, not exactly lurking; more like flaunting brazenly— on
her beat about now. If Luna was going to play the antiques game she had to
learn it wasn't played in a nunnery.

Seven

Luna Carstairs had ''occasional use of my Oliver's motor,"
she told me. You get the feeling spouses communicate by memorandum. We were
still on shanks' pony when we cut past the Welcome Sailor pub. Tits Alors was
at her post. Willowy, short-skirted, booted, black fishnets, enough makeup to
export. Beautiful.

"See Tits Alors? Ask how near she is to a load." "A
load?" Luna abruptly de-thrilled. I went to the Arcade, pausing to watch
two Brighton blokes unload a long case clock ("grandfather," as goons
like antique dealers insist on missaying). Plain case, in burl-walnut veneer on
oak, done well. Fakers nark me. I mean, whoever'd faked got it perfect—then
forgot these early clocks are never above six and a half feet tall. And the
chapter ring (its hours circle) was twelve inches, two inches too big. I hate
carelessness.

Luna was blocking my path, her face flaming. "Lovejoy! That .
. . that
lady
is a . . . a . .
." She flapped her hands.

"Prostitute? So?" If you want something done, do it
yourself. I crossed over. "Hello, Tits."

Tits smiled through rouge, mascara, a plaster of cosmetics. "Lovejoy!
Nice to . . .” She saw Luna. "She with you? I thought—"

"Sorry. Luna Carstairs, apprentice. May I present Tits Alors,
antique dealeress."

Tits smiled. ''Not dealer. Collector, Lovejoy.''

I had to laugh. "How near are you to a load, Tits?''

"Ten days, give or take. But it's spoken for."

"It's what?" This was unprecedented. "Who's
buying?"

She wouldn't say. I said so-long, walked Luna off for a think.
Except Luna was dazedly bent on interrogation.

"Lovejoy. I've actually spoken to a real one!"

Wearily I spurred my tardy cortex, to calm her.

"Look. Tits solicits. Blokes take her to some hotel. Home
even, if the wife's away. She performs, takes her fee. Nicks some tom—er,
steals jewelry, a small antique, anything."

Luna gasped. "Doesn't she get reported?"

"Never." I quickly forestalled the obvious. "The
client would have to explain about Tits. Get it?"

She trotted alongside, baffled. "Lovejoy. When Ti—ah. Miss
Alors sells the antiques, don't the police—?"

"She sells them to me. Now shut up. Just listen, watch."

That silenced her until I reached the Arcade, thank God. Gunge
Herod was there like a parked troll. In his russet sheepskin he looked off the
Himalayas. Luna gaped when he shuffled to meet us.

"Lovejoy. It's Connie."

"Connie?" My innards squeezed in alarm from the way he
said it. He shook his raggedy mane to allay panic.

"No. She's fine, but mad you didn't show."

"Show?" Everybody wants me. What about me?

"You owe her a divvy. And bunce."

I weighed possibilities. He was bigger than ever. Me and Luna
together couldn't make a single sumo. "Got wheels?"

"No. She's at the station."

Luna paid for a taxi. We tried to balance Gunge's weight, but the
taxi was practically on two wheels. Luna was thrilled. I was getting sick of
her being thrilled. She said, eyes aglow, "This is so exciting,
Lovejoy!" She couldn't keep her eyes off Gunge. Never seen a Yeti before.

"Who's this, Lovejoy?"

Connie looked pretty as a picture. We made the station forecourt
just as it started raining. I want one of those folding umbrellas. I had one
but it got lost. My shoes reminded me they still leaked. I'd cardboarded them
again only this morning. You can't depend on shoes.

"Luna Carstairs, apprentice," I introduced. "Miss Connie
Hopkins, antique dealer of this parish."

Luna was ecstatic again, I saw tiredly. "Am I really your
apprentice, Lovejoy?"

"No strangers, Lovejoy," Connie said. "Today's
confidential."

See what I mean about confidential? A lady with a ton of antiques
for public sale and they're confidential. Is it just me?

"Luna's okay. She's got my firman."

Connie eyed Luna mistrustfully. Gunge dwarfed the ticket office.
Passengers, hoping one remaining train would amble in, queued, aiming vaguely
for the ticket offices where clerks read newspapers.

"Lovejoy! How fortunate!"

This was one of those days. "Hello, Miss Turner," I said
miserably. "Er, I'm just off—"

My scruffy old genealogy-daft Yank twittered up, delved for
certificates into her cavernous leather.