Von Joel stopped. He yawned, stretched, and stood up. He lit an incense stick, which struck Larry as oddly inappropriate at that point.
“At Kennedy,” Von Joel continued, “he paid a baggage handler twenty-five thousand dollars to take the bag off the truck from the plane. Minton’s crew made the plates. The dollars were in small denominations to begin with — tens, fives, ones, but in November, the exchange day, the bag contained samples of fifty-and hundred-dollar bills. Two million dollars.” Von Joel stopped and stared at Larry. “You should use deodorant,” he said sharply.
Larry didn’t respond, but his neck and ears turned pink.
“Where did you fit into all this?” he asked.
“I took five hundred thousand,” Von Joel said, “laundered it through my antique store and art galleries. Minton’s got a time-share deal, an apartment block. I got twenty-five percent — cash. Minton’s your big fish.”
Larry looked up.
“You gave us a bum address. He’s not at Weybridge.”
“Oh, I remember...” Von Joel rubbed his head wearily. “He moved. Try Totteridge. What time is it? I can’t think straight.”
The intercom clicked. Shrapnel’s voice came on.
“Call it quits for the day, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, Frank,” Von Joel said. He leaned over the intercom, winking at Larry. “When I say I’m tired, that’s your cue. Means I could be getting scrambled, doesn’t look good on the transcripts — right, Frank?”
They waited in silence for the tape machine to be turned off. Von Joel looked at Larry again.
“You play chess?”
“No.”
“Checkers? No? Scrabble?”
“No,” Larry said curtly, standing and stretching.
“Rummy? Poker? Bridge?”
Larry shook his head.
“Do you fuck?”
“What?”
“What do you do, Larry, to let off steam? You play squash?”
“I’ll go and fix something to eat.” Larry went to the door. “What do you want?”
“I won’t eat with—” Von Joel pointed in the direction of the radio link room. “And I’ll cook my own.”
“Suit yourself.” Larry opened the door. He glanced at Von Joel before he left. “I, ah, I’m on the boxing team.”
He went out, closing the door. Von Joel laughed softly. He brought up his fists, did a quick one-two and some nifty footwork that brought him to the door. He moved like a dancer, really light on his feet considering his size. He listened a moment, could hear Jackson and Shrapnel conferring. He wondered if Shrapnel was telling Jackson about the conversation. Von Joel had been asking nonchalant questions about sports, though looking at Shrapnel’s bulk he doubted if he had ever done any, and then he had asked about Jackson. Shrapnel had mumbled that he was on the boxing team, but then Von Joel had changed the conversation fast, discussing his vitamins. He already knew Jackson liked boxing; he was testing, feeling around for anything that could get him closer to the boy, because he had so little time. He had to get under his skin, and he had to do it fast.
Von Joel moved away from the door, began a slow, strange walk around the room, like a caged animal, every muscle tensed, then relaxed as he kept up the slow, steady pacing, until he stopped, turned on his back, and lay flat. He stared up at the ceiling, his breathing gradually calming down after the exertion, until he held each breath for six beats and released it... He liked to feel the thudding of his heart, counting the beats, as he slowly began his relaxation program, feeling the flow ease through his body. As each limb relaxed, his body grew heavy, and then he closed his eyes. Von Joel slept, a clean, dreamless, fifteen-minute sleep, giving not a single thought to the list of men, some of them his friends, whom he had just betrayed.
9
At seven forty-five on Wednesday evening, as Larry lay reading on his bed at the safe house, there was a tap on the door. It opened and Von Joel put his head around the edge.
“Come next door,” he said. “Come on...”
Larry got off the bed warily, hanging on to his book. He followed Von Joel into his bedroom, noticing the change at once. The process of simplifying and rearranging had given the place a powerfully masculine feel; in the candlelight it looked Spartan and austere. Pillows were nested on the mattress on the floor. A punching bag swayed near one corner and along the wall books and videotapes were stacked neatly. Laid out on a white cloth in the middle of the floor were rice dishes in bowls with chopsticks beside them. Nearby was an ornate chess set on a thick rectangle of marble.
Von Joel lowered himself slowly until he was cross-legged on the floor. He picked up a bowl and held it out to Larry.
“I’ve eaten,” Larry said.
“I’m not offering you dinner. Sit. Sit down, I’ve got something to show you...” Von Joel took a black re-mote-control unit and pointed it at the television set in the corner. “Tapes of all the ex-heavyweight champions, from chat shows and interviews.”
The screen image was a momentary scramble of lines and colors, then it stabilized into a picture of Mike Tyson. He was laughing. Larry looked away sharply.
“Another time,” he said. “I’m reading.”
Von Joel tilted his head to read the title of Larry’s book.
“Dick Francis. Ah well, better than Catherine Cookson. That’s what they lumbered me with.” Von Joel picked up a pair of chopsticks. “The last guy must have been a psychopath.”
Larry glanced at the TV again. In truth he wanted to stay but wasn’t sure if he should. Of all his enthusiasms, boxing was the one that endured and held his interest whatever his state of mind. Just then he could have used the distraction of the tapes, but protocol had to be considered — and also, he didn’t want to look like a pushover.
“Best world heavyweight in history,” Von Joel said. “He’s a giant, and he’s twenty-five years old. Look at the size of his neck. And his feet. He’s like a human tank.”
Von Joel grabbed a pillow and threw it to Larry. It landed at his feet. He looked at it, thought, Well, this once won’t hurt, and sat down awkwardly, keeping his eyes on Tyson.
“He’s also crazy,” he told Von Joel. “You follow the rape trial?”
The bedroom door opened. DI Shrapnel looked in and stared at the tableau of the two men sitting on the floor with rice bowls, watching television. He went away again without a word.
“Try this...” Von Joel passed Larry a bowl. “I know you’ve eaten, but just try it. It’s wild rice, a little tomato, onion, lot of seasoning. Here.” He passed over a set of chopsticks. “Use these.”
Larry had to take his time. He could use chopsticks, but not particularly well. He got a small portion of the food into his mouth and chewed it carefully.
“This is great,” Von Joel said, pointing his chopsticks at the television set. “Watch old Muhammad Ali get under Foreman’s skin.”
“You ever see him fight?” Larry said. “Ali, I mean?”
“I was at Las Vegas, man... And you know, even now when he comes into the arena there’s a standing ovation. He was the King.”
Larry gazed at the screen as he ate. Von Joel watched him, smiling. Larry held the chopsticks halfway along their length, as if he were using a fountain pen. Von Joel gripped his at the very end. Larry noticed this; Von Joel saw that he noticed.
“I was in Japan,” he said, “had dinner with this sumo wrestler. Halfway through dinner, he turns and says something to his business associate. I said, What was that he said. And he explained. See the way I hold the sticks? He said I must be a prince. I use them from the top, see? I didn’t know it was royal.”
Larry looked at the screen again, chewing steadily. It was as if he had been doing this all his life.