Gold by Gemini Read Online Free

with things this bad. I let him fester a moment more, looking about.
    Helen was in, a surprise. She should have been viewing for tomorrow’s auction this late in the day. One of our careful dealers, Helen is tall, reserved, hooked on fairings, oriental art and African ethnology. I’d been a friend of Helen’s when she arrived four years before, without ever having felt close to her – mentally, that is. Self-made and self-preserved. She usually eats yoghurts and crusts in her sterile home near our ruined abbey, St John’s. Odd to see her in Woody’s grime.
    ‘Slumming?’ I called over cheerily to pass the time. She turned cool blue eyes on me, breathing cigarette smoke with effect like they can.
    ‘Yes,’ she said evenly and went back to stirring coffee amid a chorus of chuckles. Lovejoy silenced.
    ‘Lovejoy’ Tinker Dill was back from outer space. ‘What sort of stuff did you want from Bexon?’
    ‘Paintings.’
    He thought and his face cleared.
    ‘Dandy Jack.’
    ‘He picked up something of Bexon’s?’ I kept my voice down. Friends may be friends, but dealers are listeners.
    ‘Yeh. A little drawing and some dross.’
    ‘Where is he?’ Dandy’s shop was across the main street.
    ‘On a pick-up.’
    Just my luck. Dandy was given to these sudden magpie jaunts around the country. He always returned loaded with crud, but occasionally fetched the odd desirable home.
    ‘Back tomorrow,’ Tinker added.
    ‘On to something, Lovejoy?’ Beck’s voice, next table. Beck’s a florrid flabby predator from Cornwall. We call his sort of dealers trawlies, perhaps after trawler-fishing. They go wherever tourists flock, usually one step ahead of the main drove. You make your precarious living as a trawlie by guessing the tourists’ mood. For example, if you can guess that this year’s east coast visitors will go berserk over pottery souvenirs, plastic gnomes or fancy hats you can make a fortune. If you guess wrong you don’t. A rough game. Beck fancies himself as an antiques trawlie. I don’t like him, mainly because he doesn’t care what he handles – or how’. He always seems to be sneering. A criminal in search of a crime. We’ve had a few brushes in the past.
    ‘Is that you, Beck, old pal?’ I asked delightedly into the fumes of Woody’s frying cholesterol.
    ‘Who’s Bexon?’ he growled across at us.
    ‘Naughty old eavesdropping Big Ears,’ I said playfully. Not that I was feeling particularly chirpy, but happiness gets his sort down.
    ‘Chop the deal with me, Lovejoy?’ To chop is to share. There’s nothing more offensive than a trawlie trying to wheedle.
    ‘Perhaps on another occasion,’ I declined politely. I could see he was getting mad. The dealers around us were beginning to take an interest in our light social banter. You know the way friends do.
    ‘Make it soon,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re bust.’
    ‘Tell the Chancellor,’ I got back. ‘Maybe he’ll cut my tax.’
    ‘Put that in your begging-bowl.’ He flicked a penny on to our table as he rose to go. There was general hilarity at my expense.
    ‘Thanks, Beck.’ I put it in my jacket pocket. ‘You can give me the rest later.’ A few laughs on my side.
    We all watched him go. Local dealers don’t care for trawlies. They tend to arrive in a ‘circus’, as we call it, a small group viciously bent on rapid and extortionate profit. They’re galling enough to make you mix metaphors. Take my tip: never buy antiques from a travelling dealer. And if there are two or more dealers on the hoof together, then . especially don’t.
    ‘Watch Beck, Lovejoy,’ Tinker warned in an undertone. ‘A right lad. His circus’ll be around all month.’
    ‘Find me Dandy Jack, Tinker.’
    ‘Right.’ He wheezed stale beer fumes at me.
    I rose, giddy. A few other dealers emitted the odd parting jeer. I waved to my public and slid out. I was well into the Arcade before I realized I’d forgotten to pay Lisa for my tea. Tut-tut. Still, you