when he'd been furious, and wanted three-league boots next time. He had
funded the Maldon rescue.
'The lads want Dogleg and Chaplin limping, Lovejoy,' Furnace had
said, sad.
'They do?' I'd croaked, desperate.
Furnace was relentless. 'Yes or no. If no, what?'
Indeed. Sweat dripped down my face. I still feel it in the candle
hours when memory won't let go. If I'd let Dogleg and Chaplin off with a slap
on the wrist, it'd prove I was in collusion with them, and I wasn't.
'Do I tell my lads to break their legs, Lovejoy?'
'Better be yes, Furnie,' I said, in anguish.
'Good, Lovejoy,' Furnace was pleased the job was still being run
smoothly. He has a smile a saint would kill for. 'Do the right thing, eh?'
He bought me a drink, I remembered. We'd talked of some goalkeeper
being accused of taking bribes to throw a football match. Furnace thought it
scandalous.
'Lovejoy?' Faye said. She was looking worried.
'Oh. You're ready?'
We rose, chose our meal. I'm clumsy spooning vegetables, always
drop some. Faye did it for us. It's lovely to watch a woman; whatever they do's
pretty as a picture. As we returned to our table, I caught her looking at me
with a calculating air. It suddenly occurred that she hadn't wanted to ask
about the Maldon steal at all. Which raised the question, as they say, what the
hell?
'What the hell, Faye?' I said, whaling in.
'You guessed, Lovejoy.' She coloured slightly, but not enough for
guilt. More a cocky pride from hoodwinking me. I want you to bring down a
fashion house.' She smiled at my expression, adding quaintly, 'Please.'
'Oh, right,' I said, cavalier. Any day of the week, Lovejoy's the
man to destroy a million-zlotnik trade emporium. Was she mad?
Humour them when they're off their trolley or when you want to
wreak your wicked way. It's the only tactic.
'You think I'm joking, Lovejoy? Or insane?'
'No! Fashion's serious stuff. I mean, everybody knows it's . . .'
I petered out. What, a con? 'It's, well, famous.'
'It's everything, Lovejoy.' She stared past me, entranced. I
wondered if some film star had hove in. I almost turned to look. 'Clothes,
dress. Fashion is the world.'
By now I was hurling grub down like a stoker coaling up. Time to
cut and run. She was beginning to sound like Thekla. I still hadn't recovered
from that.
She prattled on about reputations, money, materials, imports,
fiscal overloads and amalgamations. I occasionally did a 'Mmmh,' and a
'Really?' or two, to keep her going until the pudding. I didn't understand a
word, didn't listen in fact. I suppose women do the same with us. Tit for
tat—pun not intended. She talked so much, quite carried away, that I had to
scoff her plateful, though I felt she'd too much gravy. You can only take so
much.
The lass cleared our plates. I can't resist trifle. One bird I
used to know said I was still a child because trifle's for children. Faye
didn't want any, but the waitress knew I couldn't stand seeing a woman go
hungry, and brought two.
'I need a fashion house to suffer shame, Lovejoy,' she said,
wistful. ‘It fully deserves to.'
'Fine, fine.' Another barmy scheme to ignore through the long
nights ahead. 'Which, er, fashion house, love?' I asked grimly, Bill Sykes of
the Black Hand Gang. I pulled out a card. 'Got a pen, love?' I was saying when
she reached across. The card was Orla's.
Faye went white. 'Orla?' she said in a whisper. 'After he almost died ?'
I stopped eating. 'Eh?'
Her lips had gone bluish, under the lipstick. 'She all but killed him.'
Who killed who? 'Who killed who?' I asked, glancing nervously
round the carvery.
People stopped dining, to look across. Anas the manager raised his
head like a wary stag.
Her voice rose. 'You and Orla, Lovejoy?'
'Shhh!' I tried to calm her. 'I'll blam her shop. Honest, love!'
'You tricked me, Lovejoy!' She stood, collected her handbag,
glared. 'Deceived me! You, in with her, Lovejoy!'
The place was silent, except for her hooting and hollering. I
tried a smile, nodded, shook
funded the Maldon rescue.
'The lads want Dogleg and Chaplin limping, Lovejoy,' Furnace had
said, sad.
'They do?' I'd croaked, desperate.
Furnace was relentless. 'Yes or no. If no, what?'
Indeed. Sweat dripped down my face. I still feel it in the candle
hours when memory won't let go. If I'd let Dogleg and Chaplin off with a slap
on the wrist, it'd prove I was in collusion with them, and I wasn't.
'Do I tell my lads to break their legs, Lovejoy?'
'Better be yes, Furnie,' I said, in anguish.
'Good, Lovejoy,' Furnace was pleased the job was still being run
smoothly. He has a smile a saint would kill for. 'Do the right thing, eh?'
He bought me a drink, I remembered. We'd talked of some goalkeeper
being accused of taking bribes to throw a football match. Furnace thought it
scandalous.
'Lovejoy?' Faye said. She was looking worried.
'Oh. You're ready?'
We rose, chose our meal. I'm clumsy spooning vegetables, always
drop some. Faye did it for us. It's lovely to watch a woman; whatever they do's
pretty as a picture. As we returned to our table, I caught her looking at me
with a calculating air. It suddenly occurred that she hadn't wanted to ask
about the Maldon steal at all. Which raised the question, as they say, what the
hell?
'What the hell, Faye?' I said, whaling in.
'You guessed, Lovejoy.' She coloured slightly, but not enough for
guilt. More a cocky pride from hoodwinking me. I want you to bring down a
fashion house.' She smiled at my expression, adding quaintly, 'Please.'
'Oh, right,' I said, cavalier. Any day of the week, Lovejoy's the
man to destroy a million-zlotnik trade emporium. Was she mad?
Humour them when they're off their trolley or when you want to
wreak your wicked way. It's the only tactic.
'You think I'm joking, Lovejoy? Or insane?'
'No! Fashion's serious stuff. I mean, everybody knows it's . . .'
I petered out. What, a con? 'It's, well, famous.'
'It's everything, Lovejoy.' She stared past me, entranced. I
wondered if some film star had hove in. I almost turned to look. 'Clothes,
dress. Fashion is the world.'
By now I was hurling grub down like a stoker coaling up. Time to
cut and run. She was beginning to sound like Thekla. I still hadn't recovered
from that.
She prattled on about reputations, money, materials, imports,
fiscal overloads and amalgamations. I occasionally did a 'Mmmh,' and a
'Really?' or two, to keep her going until the pudding. I didn't understand a
word, didn't listen in fact. I suppose women do the same with us. Tit for
tat—pun not intended. She talked so much, quite carried away, that I had to
scoff her plateful, though I felt she'd too much gravy. You can only take so
much.
The lass cleared our plates. I can't resist trifle. One bird I
used to know said I was still a child because trifle's for children. Faye
didn't want any, but the waitress knew I couldn't stand seeing a woman go
hungry, and brought two.
'I need a fashion house to suffer shame, Lovejoy,' she said,
wistful. ‘It fully deserves to.'
'Fine, fine.' Another barmy scheme to ignore through the long
nights ahead. 'Which, er, fashion house, love?' I asked grimly, Bill Sykes of
the Black Hand Gang. I pulled out a card. 'Got a pen, love?' I was saying when
she reached across. The card was Orla's.
Faye went white. 'Orla?' she said in a whisper. 'After he almost died ?'
I stopped eating. 'Eh?'
Her lips had gone bluish, under the lipstick. 'She all but killed him.'
Who killed who? 'Who killed who?' I asked, glancing nervously
round the carvery.
People stopped dining, to look across. Anas the manager raised his
head like a wary stag.
Her voice rose. 'You and Orla, Lovejoy?'
'Shhh!' I tried to calm her. 'I'll blam her shop. Honest, love!'
'You tricked me, Lovejoy!' She stood, collected her handbag,
glared. 'Deceived me! You, in with her, Lovejoy!'
The place was silent, except for her hooting and hollering. I
tried a smile, nodded, shook
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