Overtime (23 page)

Giovanni swallowed hard. ‘Combat,' he repeated.

‘Absolutely,' Blondel replied. ‘We tried the other way, but we kept on coming back to combat. Quicker, cheaper, and above all, fairer; not to mention a damn sight less traumatic for the participants. Would you like me to lend you a shield? You seem to have come out without one.'

‘Actually,' Giovanni said, ‘perhaps we ought to try a little without prejudice negotiation. I find litigation positively counter-productive sometimes, don't you?'

‘Ah yes,' Blondel replied, making his choice from a rack of double-bladed battle-axes, ‘but that's because you've never had the advantage of the Nesle judicial system. No, I think a couple of bouts ought to' - he weighed two maces, picked the heavier one and put the other back - ‘get this business knocked on the head - if you'll pardon the expression - in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Here, catch!' He tossed a helmet to Giovanni, who dropped it with a clang. ‘Up to you,' Blondel said, putting on his own helmet and feeling the edge of his axe. ‘Helmets are optional, and I can understand your feeling nervous, what with Mr Goodlet being in the same room. Shall we make it best of three, do you think? Or would you prefer sudden death?'

Giovanni made a small, whimpering noise and looked round at his brothers for support. They weren't there. They were right behind him, hiding.

‘Alternatively,' Blondel said, removing his helmet and putting down his axe on a handy coffee table, ‘we could forget all about the contract. I mean, we all trust each other, don't we? Nod if you agree.'

The Galeazzo brothers nodded in perfect unison, like a miniature Cerberus.in the back window of a Vauxhall Cavalier.

‘Glad you think so, too,' said Blondel. ‘You wouldn't happen to have it with you, by any chance?'

Marco put his feet carefully out of Giovanni's way and said ‘Yes.' He went on to explain that it was in Giovanni's briefcase, inside an envelope marked
Tax Returns 1232/3,
and would have enlarged on the theme had not his brothers put a helmet on his head, the wrong way round, so that the neckguard obstructed his mouth. By then, however, the contract was on the fire.

‘Now then,' Blondel said, ‘I think it's time for some food.'

Giovanni was looking at the contract curling up on the fire. It was possible that he might have felt similar sensations of loss and sadness for the death of his grandmother; but the theory would be hard to prove, given that he'd sold her to Barbary slavers hundreds of years earlier, and since then they'd lost touch. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

‘Right,' he said. ‘Well, I think we've now established a forum for negotiations leading to a new contract ...'

Blondel turned round slowly and looked at him. ‘You think so,' he said.

‘Absolutely,' Giovanni replied. ‘I mean,' he added, and his will to profit battled briefly with his instincts of self-preservation; the will to profit won. ‘Perhaps a little fine-tuning of some of the clauses might be called for, what with the passage of time and changes in circumstances; but what the hell, Blondel, you're still an artist, and artists need agents. Now then ...'

‘Just for that,' Blondel said, ‘you get a double helping of mashed potato.'

Giovanni looked wounded. ‘You disappoint me,' he said. ‘I think we can do business together. After all,' he said, ‘you'd be interested in finding the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, now wouldn't you?'

Blondel gave him a long look. ‘You're bluffing,' he said.

‘Maybe.'

‘You don't know where the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes is, any more than I do.'

Giovanni smiled. ‘True,' he said. ‘But I know where they bank.'

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Guy eating a few stale peanuts he'd found in a deserted finger-bowl. Finally Blondel stood up and walked about the room for a while.

‘Where they
bank...'
he said.

‘Absolutely,' Giovanni said. ‘After all, it's a fundamental rule of nature. Everybody banks somewhere.'

‘Oh yes?' Blondel replied. ‘What about...' He tailed off.

‘What about?' Giovanni repeated.

Blondel suddenly grinned. ‘I was trying to think of an example,' he said, ‘and I couldn't. All right, then, tell me how you know where the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes banks.'

Giovanni shook his head. ‘I wasn't born yesterday,' he said. ‘We've got to have a contract first.'

Blondel sighed. ‘Have it your own way, then. Even when I've found out where their bank is, how does that help me find them?'

‘That's up to you,' Giovanni replied. ‘You're a very resourceful man. Now then, we were discussing terms.'

‘Were we?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh,' Blondel shrugged. ‘Go on, then.'

‘Just one gig,' Giovanni said. ‘One very big concert. We'll network it, naturally; every country, every century, every dimension.'

Blondel frowned. ‘How?' he said.

‘Simple.' Giovanni spread his hands in a gesture of extreme simplicity. ‘We'll do it in every country, in every century, simultaneously.'

‘Hang on,' Blondel said. ‘Nobody's ever done that before.'

Giovanni's smile widened until it came close to being a geographical feature. ‘They soon will have,' he replied. ‘Just one gig, Blondel. How about it?'

As he spoke the kitchen door opened, and Isoud trotted angrily out, plonked down a huge dish of mashed potato on the table, and trotted back again. The door slammed behind her.

‘All right,' Blondel said. He looked at the mashed potato and shuddered. ‘Just this once.'

 

 

‘If it's one of those junk faxes,' Mountjoy's secretary said, ‘I'll get him to write to the company. I've got enough to do without running up and down stairs delivering mailshots.'

Congratulations!
the message continued. You
have been selected as this month's lucky winner in the Galeazzo Brothers Financial Services Draw. This month's fabulous prize is two tickets for the greatest ever Blondel concert.

‘Thought so,' said Mountjoy's secretary, and she went to pull the paper out of the machine. An arm stopped her.

‘Leave it,' said a voice harshly behind her. ‘I want to see what it says.'

‘Yes,
sir,'
squeaked the secretary. She retreated.

All you have to do to receive your fabulous prize,
went on the message, slowly ballooning out of the printer,
is to invest ST50,000 or more in a Galeazzo Brothers Managed Fund of your choice before the end of the month; but hurry! If you don't claim your fabulous prize within the specified time, then Galeazzo Brothers Financial Services reserve the right to offer your fabulous prize to another lucky winner. All enquiries about Galeazzo Brothers Managed Funds should be addressed to...

And then the paper got wedged and the toner ran out and the rollers jammed and the printer got stuck, and a few moments later the whole thing seized up and started beeping hysterically. An arm reached out and tweaked the paper free. Someone opened a door for the distinguished visitor, and he left. Gradually, life in Reception returned to normal.

‘Who was that?' Mountjoy's secretary asked. Everybody looked at her.

‘Funny,' said the office junior. ‘Dead comical.'

‘Straight up,' she replied. ‘Who was it? I've never seen him before.'

‘That,' said the postboy, ‘was Mr A.'

‘Who's—'

‘So next time,' the postboy went on, ‘if I was you, I'd mind your manners, right? It doesn't do to get on the wrong side of Mr A.' The postboy frowned. ‘So to speak,' he added.

‘I still don't know ...'

But everyone was wandering off; some to make coffee, others to file memoranda, others to stand around waiting for the man to come and fix the photocopier. Mountjoy's secretary was just scratching her head, wondering if she'd missed something somewhere, when the phone rang. She hurried back to her place, sat down and put on the headphones.

‘Chastel des Larmes Chaudes, can I help you?' she warbled.

‘I want to speak to the proprietor,' said the voice at the other end. A nice voice, Mountjoy's secretary thought; not the sort to bite your head off.

‘Thank you,' she replied. ‘Who shall I say is calling, please?'

‘My name's de Nesle,' the voice said. ‘Jean de Nesle. I think he'll take my call.'

The atmosphere at a Blondel concert is not easy to describe. When the concert in question has been billed as the Very Last Ever Farewell Charity Concert, the atmosphere is heightened to such an extent that barometers are brought into the auditorium entirely at their owners' risk.

For the occasion the Galeazzo Brothers had built - over the course of centuries, naturally, and entirely funded by retrospective borrowing (which meant that the bank ended up paying
them
interest) - the biggest, grandest, most garish neo-Gothic auditorium ever. Every inch of the surface area of the huge massed banks of speakers was carved with intricate scroll-and-acanthus work, and the leads entered them through the mouths of grinning gargoyles. The stage itself was supported on slender pinnacles of stone at a dizzying height above the ground, and was roofed over with a breathtaking canopy of stained glass, providing an unrivalled light show without the expense of electric power.

Up in his dressing room, Blondel wasn't feeling the slightest bit nervous. As far as he was concerned, he was going to sing. He quite liked singing, although he found it got a bit tiresome if you did it day in, day out, and since he'd written all the songs himself he wasn't worried about forgetting the words. Even if he did, he could make up some more. They'd like that, probably.

‘I do wish you'd stop walking up and down like that,' he said to Giovanni, who had worn a little freeway in the pile of the carpet. ‘You know I like to get forty winks before I go on, and you're keeping me awake.'

Giovanni spat out a mouthful of fingernail and scowled at him. ‘The biggest gig in the history of the world,' he snarled. ‘If they suddenly ask for their money back, it'll wipe out the financial structures of the entire civilised world. For God's sake, most of the money we've been paid for seats hasn't even been made yet. I've got a right to be nervous.'

Blondel shrugged. ‘Fair enough,' he said, ‘if it makes you feel any better, by all means be nervous. But it'd be awfully sweet of you if you'd just go and do it somewhere else.'

Giovanni shook his head furiously, until it became a blur of movement. ‘Oh no,' he said. ‘I'm not letting you out of my sight till this is all safely over. Not after Wurtemburg.'

‘Come on, Giovanni,' Blondel sighed. ‘Not Wurtemburg
again.'

Giovanni ignored him. ‘A sell-out,' he said. ‘Not a seat to be had for any money. Crown Prince of Denmark sitting in the front row, eating popcorn. And you take it into your head to slope off and sing under some castle instead, just because—'

‘It was seeing the Crown Prince put it into my head, actually,' Blondel commented. ‘I thought, Elsinore, haven't been there for ages, worth a try. A complete washout, actually. I nearly got spitted by a nervous guard with a halberd, but that was all.'

Giovanni growled at him. ‘That was not bloody well all,' he snapped. ‘I had to pay out ninety million groschen in returned admittance. The Crown Prince nearly did his nut. Tried to stab me through the safety curtain. And that's why I'm not letting you set foot outside this room until ...'

Blondel shrugged. ‘All right,' he said amicably, ‘entirely up to you. I just thought you might be more comfortable sitting down. Have an aspirin or something.'

‘I don't want an aspirin,' Giovanni replied. ‘For two pins I'd take a short cut through a couple of hours and only come back when it's all over. Only then I wouldn't be able to keep an eye on you ...'

The door opened and Guy came in with a tray. It contained a glass of water, a dry biscuit and a handful of seedless currants.

‘There's a man outside,' he said, ‘claims he's from the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,
wants an interview. I told him to get lost.'

Blondel drank half the water and nibbled the edge of the biscuit. ‘He was probably telling the truth, actually,' he said. ‘Still, I don't much care for reporters. Silly of me, I know, and they're only doing their job, but—'