Framed (6 page)

He was a man of substance insulated from the world by deep, tight layers of culture and wealth. All former personas were dead and of no significance.

He closed his eyes tighter as the smell of excrement rose in a dank wave from the gurgling drunk behind him.

1 am Philip Von Joel and 1 do not belong in this place. . . .

The addict grunted sharply. Von Joel opened his eyes and saw him roll on his back, draw up his knees, then turn on his side again and vomit in a steaming gush on to the floor.

Von Joel jammed his eyes shut, trying not to breathe the stink. "Dignity." He hissed, "Sense of self . . ."

He told himself firmly, over and over, just who he was, and that he didn't belong in that place. He whispered his name and imagined his personhood protected by the force of his will.

The addict knelt up suddenly. His chest heaved, his wide eyes cavernous as empty sockets in the oblique light. He vomited again, spewing whatever he had left in his guts across and down his own skeleton chest. Von Joel watched the bloated insects biting, sucking, watched as the ants streamed over the puke, and swallowed, turning away. The stench was horrific, and the heat had to be way over a hundred and ten degrees. His whole body was drenched, his three-hundred-pound shirt dripping, the waistband of his tailored handmade trousers sopping. He could feel the perspiration trickle down from his neck over his belly, drip from his hair, slithering down his neck. He rested his head back against the brick wall, and then out of the corner of his eye he saw the fat cockroach crawling and inching its way along the wall toward him. He shut his eyes and his hands clenched together as he felt the insect moving onto his shoulder, but he made no move to swipe it away. As he felt its clawlike feet easing up his neck, he began to wait, timing it. Now it was crawling to his chin, positioned just below his lower lip. . . . He waited, could feel the cockroach easing onto his lip, and he suddenly snapped his mouth open, biting the creature into two sections, then he spat it out. He had decided if he killed three, his time was up, but only on the condition he did not move a single muscle but his mouth . . . three: two more to go.

Susan got back to the hotel at half-past eleven. By that time Larry was pacing the floor. He had come back after nine to find the boys tucked up in bed asleep and no clue as to where Susan might be. When she finally swept in, dressed up in her best, her makeup carefully overdone, it was evident she had drunk too much. She closed the door and leaned on it, grinning lopsidedly at Larry.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demanded. "You left the kids on their own!"

"As I recall, you're the one that said they would be fine, and anyway, they know to call down to the resident babysitter if they need anything." Susan launched herself away from the door and struck a flamenco stance. "I've been to a nightclub."

"Who with?"

"The waiter, the barman, and the swimming pool attendant."

Larry did a swift reading of the pang he felt when she told him that. He decided it was annoyance, not jealousy.

Susan executed a couple of dance steps, then stopped, remembering something.

"Got a great joke," she said, giggling in advance. "There's these two old Jewish tailors, Morris and Izzy, who retire to Miami. Well, they get themselves all tanned up, looking at the young, sexy beauties, right?"

"You're pissed as a newt."

"So, every night Morris scores, but poor Izzy never gets a second look. 'What am I doing wrong, Morris?' he says. 'I got the Bermuda shorts, the tan, the cigar—for what? None of the girls want to know.' Morris tells him,

Izzy, this is what you do. Get two potatoes, slip them down your Bermudas. Okay? Just do what I say, and you can't fail.' So the next day Izzy gets two potatoes—"

"Oh, come on, Susie—"

"And that night he gets hold of his pal, he's in a real rage, and he says, 'Morris, I patrolled the beach all day with two King Edwards down my Bermudas, just like you told me to do, and all the girls did was laugh!' Morris takes one look at him and he says, 'Izzy, you're supposed to put the potatoes down the front of your Bermudas!' "

Larry groaned. Susan began to stagger about, laughing.

"He had them at the back, get it? Like, like he'd done something in his pants."

"I don't think that's funny," Larry said, talking through her laughter. "I've been waiting for you."

The telephone rang. As Larry turned to answer it Susan pushed him, her face angry suddenly.

"I've
been waiting for
you
the entire vacation!" she said.

Larry jammed the receiver to his ear.

"Yeah, this is Jackson." He listened, nodding, then his eyebrows went up a clear half-inch. "What? You're kidding! Yeah, sure, I'll be there. He didn't last long, did he?"

He put down the phone. "Got him!" he said, grabbing his jacket. "Eddie Myers wants to talk to us!"

Susan was at the mirror, plastering cream on her face, a preliminary to removing her makeup.

"Where are you going?" she asked coolly.

"Prison," Larry said, opening the door. "See you later —Dolores."

DI Falcon was covered in insect repellent, and Summers had to ease his shoes off, as his feet had swollen. They were waiting for Myers to be brought out of the holding cell. Larry banged in, sweating, his shirt clinging to him, but he was elated.

"They're bringing him up now. . . ."

Summers tried to get his shoes back on as Falcon pushed the knot of his sodden tie up to his neck and slipped on his jacket. They could hear the footsteps in the stone corridor, and then they were confronted by Edward Myers. His hands were cuffed in front of him, his shirt was filthy, as were his trousers, and his face was dark with stubble. The two Spanish police officers stepped back to allow him to enter the room freely. He had the audacity to lean against the doorframe. He was not in any way angry and there was not a hint of bitterness. He just lolled, as if he had entered someone's drawing room for a party. He looked from Summers to Falcon, and lastly to Lawrence Jackson,
Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson,
and then he gave that strange smile.

"So, what's the weather like in London then?"

5

By noon next day arrangements were being made for a triumphal return to London with the prisoners in tow. Larry, DI Falcon, and DC Summers accompanied Von Joel to his villa to supervise the packing for the trip.

They had been there a little under an hour when Summers came down the main staircase to the hall and spoke to Falcon, who was studying a flight timetable.

"He says he s entitled to take as much luggage as he wants—is that right?" Summers looked about him, peering into the richly furnished rooms off the hall as if somebody might be listening. "We're checking everything, me and Sergeant Jackson, but he's got his housekeeper packing for him. Is that okay?"

"Any extra baggage weight," Falcon said, "he pays. Just don't let him near a phone. You unplugged all the extensions up there?"

Summers nodded.

"Right, then ..." Falcon squinted at the timetable.

"There's a charter at six, I'll check if they got seats available."

"Charter?"

The voice came from the top of the stairs. They looked up. Von Joel was glaring at them from the landing. He was still handcuffed but had shaved and was wearing a long white flowing robe.

"No way," he boomed. "You won't get me in one of those. I want a scheduled flight."

Falcon stared at him, anxious to exert some authority.

"You go back any way we think fit, Myers. The British government's paying for this."

"Let me call my travel agents," Von Joel said. "Any extra expense is down to me. You can't say I haven't been cooperative, but I won't get on one of those clapped-out junk heaps."

Falcon shrugged. "Fair enough. You got the number? I'll call."

When the packing was finished Von Joel's house staff carried the suitcases—Gucci, matching—down to the hall. Larry wandered out onto the balcony beyond the master bedroom. The view was impressive, taking in the entire length of the swimming pool, the sweep of the garden, the wooded land beyond, and the main gates off to the right. As Larry watched he saw Lola drive up in a white Porsche and walk in through the gates, past the policemen on duty there.

Looking down, he saw DC Summers heading across the tiles toward the pool. He was wearing bathing trunks. He looked up and waved to Larry.

"Coming in?" he shouted. "Falcon said it was okay."

Larry turned away, shaking his head. The curtain behind the balcony doors moved and Lola appeared. She leaned on the doorjamb, folding her arms and staring at him. He began to smile uncertainly.

"You littie prick," she said.

Larry gulped softly. She turned and disappeared into the villa again. Down at the pool Larry saw the white length of DC Summers dive into the water.

Falcon meanwhile was in the drawing room using the portable telephone, trying to make himself understood. Outside the door, on the balcony overlooking the stairs, Von Joel lay back in a chair with his feet on a heavy antique table, lowering his handcuffed wrists around Lola's neck as she came to him, kissing him and making whimpering sounds against his cheek. Larry appeared and stood a short distance away, wary in case Lola turned the verbals on him again.

"What?" Falcon came out of the drawing room, interrogating the telephone. "Can you speak in English, please? Eh? Today . . . Tonight? What? Jesus!"

"I'll do it," Von Joel said. He took the receiver and spoke softly into it. "Julio?
No, no hay ningun problema. . . . Cuatro, si, de primera close.
" He laughed.
"De acu-erdo, a mi cuenta."
He handed back the telephone to Falcon and looked at his watch. "Five o'clock flight. We've got plenty of time. I'll have lunch served out on the patio." He hooked his arms tightly around Lola and narrowed his eyes at Falcon. "Can I have fifteen minutes?"

Falcon nodded. Von Joel got out of the chair. He and Lola made their way toward the bedroom. Falcon turned, hearing Larry Jackson's heavy sigh.

"You got a problem?"

"If the Guv'nor got to hear about this . . ." Larry shook his head. "It's like a frigging CarryOn movie. He's up there shafting his girlfriend, Summers is out doing laps in the pool—"

"Ease up, Larry," Falcon grunted. "We got him, didn't we?"

But it hardly feels like it,
Larry thought, watching the DI walk away.

It was all so idiotically civilized. They were taking a villain, a right bad bastard, back to England to face the music, but first they were going to join him for lunch on the patio, just as soon as he'd finished giving his woman a seeing-to; after lunch—followed, no doubt by some fine coffee and a few brandies—they would get in the villain's Rolls-Royce and accompany him and his Gucci baggage to the airport, where they would all board a scheduled flight to London. As if that wasn't ridiculous enough, they would travel up front in first class, in seats paid for by none other than the fugitive from justice himself.

It was all haywire. As soon as Larry heard the news from the prison he had pictured Von Joel being bundled, scruffy and unshaven, into the back of a van, given a rough ride out to the airport then dragged unceremoniously onto a scabby old bucket of a plane where he wouldn't be allowed to undo his seatbelt, and couldn't take a piss until he was banged up in a shitty old cell at the other end.