He groaned and dropped the packet. Beside him Larry took the lid from the teapot and dug a packet of teabags from the cupboard.
“Where’s the bread?”
Von Joel nodded to a large plastic container with bread printed on it. Larry opened it and pulled out a white thin-sliced loaf. He tore open the wrapper.
“You want toast, ah...” Larry paused, holding the loaf. “What do I call you? Eddie?”
Somehow he felt that was wrong, even though it was the name on all the documentation. Edward Myers. Eddie to everybody. That was once upon a time. This man wasn’t Eddie. The other name was much more him, it fitted like a glove. Philip Von Joel. It rang better in the head, too, and it even looked special written down...
“Call me whatever you like,” Von Joel said, shaking Larry from his reverie.
Larry put two slices of bread into the toaster, watching as Von Joel sat down at the table with his glass of orange juice. From a transparent dark plastic packet he tipped out tablets and capsules, large and small, sixteen all together. He popped one into his mouth and took a sip of orange juice. Larry came across, frowning, suspicious. He put his hand over the colorful spread.
“What’s this?”
“Supplements,” Von Joel said calmly. He pointed.
“That’s vitamin C, one gram. Linseed oil, always has to be kept in a dark bottle, otherwise it loses its potency to the light. Take these every day, with the C, and it’ll add twenty years to your life.” He touched a red-brown capsule. “This is beta carotene, gives a healthy glow to your skin. You should always start taking these — in small doses — before you go on vacation. You wouldn’t burn up so easily and it’d help you to work up a tan — your nose took a beating, didn’t it? It still looks red...” He popped a tablet into his mouth and sipped some juice. “Ginseng and B6 and lift your hand! See this one?” He held up a large pill. “This is to counteract the lead poisoning. You ever been tested? Living in London, you should.”
He looked up at Larry, annoyed suddenly at the suspicious way he was still peering at the tablets and capsules.
“They were given the okay by McKinnes.”
The toaster clanged and the bread popped up, burned dark brown. Larry retrieved it.
“You know that has no goodness in it whatsoever,” Von Joel warned him. He pointed at the butter. “You should get a nonfat spread too. If you have to have a sweetener, use honey instead of sugar, it’s much better for you.”
Over the next three minutes, as Larry got together the meager components of his breakfast, Von Joel regaled him with nutritional advice, citing his own dietary practices as the ideal path to a healthy spirit in a healthy body.
Larry, sorely miffed by now, banged out his chair from the table and sat down. He began pouring the tea.
“Do we get a newspaper delivered?” Von Joel asked pleasantly. “I don’t mean in the conventional way, of course—”
“What d’you think this place is?” Larry demanded. “A frigging hotel?” Pointedly he spooned sugar into his tea. “By the way,” he added, spreading butter thickly on a slice of toast, “do me a favor tonight — no music.”
Von Joel finished taking his supplements and stood up.
“I’ll go and do my exercises — if that’s okay with you.”
As he reached the door Larry called him.
“Eddie. Like I said, this isn’t a hotel and I’m not waiting on you. You wash up after yourself.”
Von Joel nodded. He came back to the table, picked up the orange juice glass, and took it to the sink. Larry, keeping up the hard front, announced they would have their first session at nine-thirty. At the door again, Von Joel paused.
“What do I call you? Sergeant? Larry? Lawrence? Mr. Jackson?”
“Larry’s okay. The relief guy brings the newspaper, by the way.”
“Fine.” Von Joel nodded. “Bet it won’t be the Times though. Can you arrange that for me? I like to check my shares in the financial section.” He smiled, watching Larry glare. “Joke,” he said, walking out.
At eight forty-five, while Von Joel was still in the gym, DI Shrapnel appeared in the kitchen with a paper sack crammed with items from the shopping list. Larry, washed and dressed by then, unpacked the fresh fruit, vegetarian breakfast cereal, pure yogurt, rice biscuits, and salt substitute while Shrapnel fished out the odd packet and jar and read the labels.
“Scottish heather honey, natural maple syrup — but no bread!”
“He said he doesn’t eat wheat because it creates acidity, which creates bad moods.”
Shrapnel tutted softly. He looked at his watch and sighed in the unconscious way overweight men do when exertion, any exertion, is imminent.
“I’ll be on my way in a minute.” He waved his hand at the shopping. “Tell him I got most of his list, apart from the yannis thing, they’ll have to ring around the health shops for that. His one hundred percent buckwheat pancakes are there, and the rice cakes — I tried one of them. Like chewing cotton wool...”
Von Joel came in, smiling faintly. He wore sharply creased slacks, a cashmere sweater, and soft leather slippers. He moved with scarcely a sound.
“I am trying to get the wild rice,” Shrapnel said, looking at Von Joel with open dislike, “and the coffee substitute, but the rice in one shop was seven pounds for a pound — that can’t be right, can it?”
Von Joel had begun preparing his breakfast, spooning yogurt over a mixture of nuts, bran, and raisins. He flipped through the herb teas a couple of times and settled on mint. The door buzzer sounded and Shrapnel hurried out. Von Joel turned to Larry.
“Seven pounds is overpriced,” he said. “It should be around three pounds for a pound. In the U.S. you can buy it for under two dollars.”
As Larry turned to leave Von Joel held out his bowl.
“You want to try some?”
Larry shook his head, flustered by charm and civilized behavior where he had a right to expect the manners of a thug. He was still standing by the door when McKinnes walked into the kitchen. He was carrying a bacon sandwich smothered in tomato ketchup. A newspaper was stuffed into his pocket.
“I just came in to tell you your wife is fine,” he told Larry. “Oh, you want this morning’s paper?”
He took it from his pocket and tossed it on the table. It was the Sun. Von Joel laughed out loud. Larry couldn’t help smiling.
“What?” McKinnes looked from one man to the other, mystified. “Did I say something funny?”
8
Larry was ready at nine-thirty, seated in the lounge with pencils, pens, and notepads lined up and the condenser microphone in position. Von Joel appeared at nine thirty-three. He was carrying a bottle of mineral water and a pair of white underpants.
“You want to wear these?” He tossed the pants to Larry. “I noticed your smalls were still wet.”
Larry let the pants lie where they were on the chair beside him. He checked his watch pointedly as Von Joel put his bottle of water on the table.
“They’re handmade for me in Paris, Larry. I don’t know why there isn’t a company in England that designs decent underwear for men. I see these disgusting Y-fronts in the shops here — worse, stretch bikinis. And the colors... oh, man... But those, you can wear linen pants over them, they don’t make that line at the sides. Try them — you’re medium, aren’t you?”
“You want to shut the door?” Larry said.