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.
"It's all bloody wrong," Larry muttered.
He heard a sound from somewhere in the villa; it was a woman's voice, crying or laughing, he couldn't tell which. Probably the sexy Lola, going vocal while she gave the Rronzed Rull something to remember her by.
He wandered out to the balcony and saw Summers still splashing away in the pool. He leaned on the parapet, skimming the discontent that cluttered his mind. He wondered how Susan would cope with getting back to England on her own with the boys. He wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the vacation being cut short in the first place, but he could guess. There was bound to be a showdown, but his prospect of a promotion, and the more realistic salary that went with it, might be enough to keep the blood on the walls to a minimum.
Picturing his new status, Larry straightened suddenly, recalling what Falcon had said as he walked away.
Ease up, Larry, we got him, didn't we?
All of a sudden it was we. How come?
Where did team effort enter the picture? Who spotted the walking corpse in the first place? Lawrence Jackson, that was who, all on his own, entirely unaided. He was the one who followed Myers, got his dabs and clinched the
ID. It had been his baby, his operation all the way through. So where did collective credit come into it?
He folded his arms tightly, the way he had done as a kid when something got his goat; he clasped his ribs, feeling his aggravation swell. As you got older, he thought, nothing lived up to expectation. Just about every outcome, even the best, carried a letdown in the tail. He pictured himself being elbowed out of the limelight and began to wish he hadn't spotted the speedboat that stinking hot lunchtime. If he had concentrated harder on his book, or even the women lying alongside him, it would all have been different. A miserable, uneventful vacation for the wife and kids would have been a less gut-churning, less heartbreaking option. He turned and ran his eyes around the villa, trying to find consolation, knowing this was the last place to look.
f
Late that afternoon, as they were leaving the villa in the Corniche, Von Joel turned and called back to Lola, telling her to mind the dogs.
"Mind my boys," he cried. "I'll be back."
"I wouldn't bet on it," Larry told him.
Von Joel stared for a moment, his eyes glinting darkly behind his shades. Then he began to laugh. It was real laughter, spontaneous and unforced, resounding and deep. It mystified Larry. And it scared him a little. He took a sidelong glance at Myers. He could smell his aftershave and his eyes traveled down to Myers's fine, strong, tanned hands, relaxed, completely at ease, only the telltale handcuffs giving any indication this man was a captive. He didn't turn back to the villa again, but stared ahead. His dark glasses gave nothing away, his perfect jawline was not rigid, he appeared to be totally relaxed and on top of the situation. In actual fact he was seething, but timing each breath, forcing himself into an outward show of calmness. The fifteen minutes with Lola had not given him enough time, but she was intelligent, she'd get moving, and while with Charlotte to help her they would be some assistance, he knew he was going to need more, a lot more. He had a
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.
"It's all bloody wrong," Larry muttered.
He heard a sound from somewhere in the villa; it was a woman's voice, crying or laughing, he couldn't tell which. Probably the sexy Lola, going vocal while she gave the Rronzed Rull something to remember her by.
He wandered out to the balcony and saw Summers still splashing away in the pool. He leaned on the parapet, skimming the discontent that cluttered his mind. He wondered how Susan would cope with getting back to England on her own with the boys. He wasn't entirely sure how she felt about the vacation being cut short in the first place, but he could guess. There was bound to be a showdown, but his prospect of a promotion, and the more realistic salary that went with it, might be enough to keep the blood on the walls to a minimum.
Picturing his new status, Larry straightened suddenly, recalling what Falcon had said as he walked away.
Ease up, Larry, we got him, didn't we?
All of a sudden it was we. How come?
Where did team effort enter the picture? Who spotted the walking corpse in the first place? Lawrence Jackson, that was who, all on his own, entirely unaided. He was the one who followed Myers, got his dabs and clinched the
ID. It had been his baby, his operation all the way through. So where did collective credit come into it?
He folded his arms tightly, the way he had done as a kid when something got his goat; he clasped his ribs, feeling his aggravation swell. As you got older, he thought, nothing lived up to expectation. Just about every outcome, even the best, carried a letdown in the tail. He pictured himself being elbowed out of the limelight and began to wish he hadn't spotted the speedboat that stinking hot lunchtime. If he had concentrated harder on his book, or even the women lying alongside him, it would all have been different. A miserable, uneventful vacation for the wife and kids would have been a less gut-churning, less heartbreaking option. He turned and ran his eyes around the villa, trying to find consolation, knowing this was the last place to look.
f
Late that afternoon, as they were leaving the villa in the Corniche, Von Joel turned and called back to Lola, telling her to mind the dogs.
"Mind my boys," he cried. "I'll be back."
"I wouldn't bet on it," Larry told him.
Von Joel stared for a moment, his eyes glinting darkly behind his shades. Then he began to laugh. It was real laughter, spontaneous and unforced, resounding and deep. It mystified Larry. And it scared him a little. He took a sidelong glance at Myers. He could smell his aftershave and his eyes traveled down to Myers's fine, strong, tanned hands, relaxed, completely at ease, only the telltale handcuffs giving any indication this man was a captive. He didn't turn back to the villa again, but stared ahead. His dark glasses gave nothing away, his perfect jawline was not rigid, he appeared to be totally relaxed and on top of the situation. In actual fact he was seething, but timing each breath, forcing himself into an outward show of calmness. The fifteen minutes with Lola had not given him enough time, but she was intelligent, she'd get moving, and while with Charlotte to help her they would be some assistance, he knew he was going to need more, a lot more. He had a
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