“When I was a kid,” he said, “I didn’t rate Ali. Now... I’m still not sure. He turned it all into a circus. And Tyson — he got twenty million for his last fight. All that dough, and he screws up.”
Von Joel laughed.
“Wasn’t the dough that screwed him, Larry. It was the screwing.”
“You think what he did was funny?”
Von Joel’s grin faded. He shook his head. “You and your wife,” he said, “got a good scene, have you?”
“Leave my wife out of it.”
Von Joel smiled again and continued to eat. He looked around as Shrapnel passed the door carrying his dressing gown and a hamburger. Larry swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing, started to pick up more, and paused.
“Why have you refused to see your wife?” he asked, half expecting an answer like the one he had just given.
“I’m dead,” Von Joel said. “She buried me.”
“Moyra, isn’t it?”
Von Joel leaned forward and picked up another bowl.
“Try this. It’s shrimp and fresh vegetables — steamed.”
Larry took a portion on the chopsticks. The food was almost at his mouth when a piece fell off and landed on the front of his shirt.
“Shit! It was clean on today.” He picked away the food, seeing the stain it left. “Will it come out?”
“Yeah, sure.” Von Joel cocked his head at Larry. “You out of clean shirts?”
Later, inspired by the videos and the running chat about fights and fighters, they went to the gym and worked out for half an hour. At the center of Larry’s mind the enigma of Von Joel was growing steadily. How could this man, he wondered, this awful man with his horrendous history — a history that quite possibly included murder — be simultaneously the charming, gifted, civilized individual whose company, Larry had to admit, was among the most interesting and enjoyable he had ever shared? Where, in an extensive life of crime, had Von Joel found the time to acquire his culture, his armory of talents, his sheer breadth? Larry was still wary — he intended to make himself stay that way — but he could no longer fail to acknowledge that this was an exceptional man. And tonight there was a pleasing shift in their relationship. Von Joel, it appeared, was not nearly so good a boxer as Larry, though it did not occur to Larry to wonder if he was being led to believe that.
“See, what you’re not doing is carrying the punch through,” Larry said, panting, shining with sweat as they broke and stood back from one another. “If you hit like this...”
He threw a punch at the air, putting his bulk squarely behind it, letting the centered mass of his upper body be the driving force behind his arm.
“Weight has always got to be forward, see? It means your punch is carrying the whole body weight. Feet apart, that’s important. Come on now, let’s see you again.”
Von Joel took up his stance in front of the bag and asked Larry if he was doing it right. Larry nodded, told him to go for it. Von Joel launched a powerful punch, sending the bag swinging.
“That’s it!” Larry said. “Feel the difference!” He took the bag between his hands, beginning to imagine himself every inch the coach. “Don’t swivel your hips, keep the feet apart... and again!” He took the shock as another punch landed on the bag. “Good one! Yeah!”
Von Joel stepped back, wiping sweat from his face. He grinned.
“Tell you what, Larry — you work out with me half an hour a day, and I’ll teach you how to play chess. Deal?”
“Okay.” Larry nodded, pulling himself back, still trying to keep the semblance of a proper distance, the copper-villain divide. It was becoming harder. “I better get some sleep,” he said uneasily, moving to the door. “Homework to do, as well...”
At the door he half turned, gave Von Joel a shy smile and walked out. Von Joel held the big black leather punching bag as if it were a woman. Hugging it to him, he brushed his lips against the leather; he was breaking through, he knew it, could feel it, and he planted a kiss on the hard leather and chuckled. Then he stepped back and gave a perfect punch, a hard single uppercut, that dented the bag and sent it swinging... that punch he would save for the right time, the right place.
Early that morning DCI McKinnes, in a buoyant mood, had stepped out of a patrol car near the front of an elegant house in Totteridge and paused, standing back to admire the house, the neat garden, and the immaculate Jaguar standing by the front door.
As he stood there two children came out wearing school uniforms and carrying satchels. They were accompanied by an attentive, attractive woman who was obviously their mother. She got into the driver’s seat of the Jaguar and the children climbed in the back. A moment later they drove away.
“Well, now,” McKinnes said expansively, turning to the patrol car and tapping the windshield with a rolled-up warrant, “that’s the wife, so we got the right sodding place this time.” He bent down and looked at the officers in the car. “We all set? Let’s go then. Two around the back.”
Two officers ran to the rear of the house and McKinnes marched up to the front door with two others. He rang the bell, waited, then rang it again. They waited for a count of thirty, then McKinnes gave the signal to break down the door. It was a strong door and it had to be smashed to pieces before they could get into the house. When finally they did get in, they found no one there.
That had happened before nine o’clock in the morning. At ten to eight in the evening McKinnes was again driven up to the front door. A police van was visible at the side of the house and a second patrol car, DC Summers leaning against the hood, was parked in front beside the Jaguar. McKinnes wound down his window.
“He showed up yet?”
“No.” Summers shook his head glumly. “Not a sign of him. His wife’s giving us an earful. We got his passport and a wad of money. If he took off, he can’t get far.”
“Did he play golf today like she said?”
“He had a game booked for nine-thirty this morning, but he never showed.”
“Anyone check his locker?” McKinnes registered the empty look on Summers’s face. “At the bloody golf club!” he explained. “They have lockers, maybe he’s got gear stashed there.” He opened the door and struggled out of the patrol car. “Go on,” he told Summers, “do it now, I’ll have a word with his wife. I could do with a cup of tea.”
“She’s not offering,” Summers said.
The front door was open. McKinnes let himself in and immediately saw Mrs. Minton standing in the hallway, sobbing into a handkerchief. There were sounds of heavy, serious movement from the region of the kitchen, where police officers were removing the fittings and methodically using hammers to tap lengths of pipe as they were uncovered. When Mrs. Minton spotted McKinnes her eyes hardened. She clutched the handkerchief against her breast.
“I’m telling you again,” she said, a tremor behind her voice, “I don’t know where he is. He went out to play golf early this morning and I’ve not seen him since. How many more times do I have to tell you?”
Three officers came past carrying bags and boxes. McKinnes stood by the front door, watching them go out. He turned to Mrs. Minton again, his face almost sad.
“The thing is, love, he didn’t play today,” he said. “So we’re just going to have to hang around until he comes back, or you can tell us where he’s gone.”
“I don’t know where he is!” Mrs. Minton screeched. There was a rumble, then a crash from the kitchen. She looked behind her fearfully. “You bastards!” She glared at McKinnes. “They’re bloody pulling down my new kitchen units! What d’you think he’s done, eh? Swum down the frigging drain?”
“What about making a pot of tea?” McKinnes suggested. His pager buzzed. He took it out, canceled it. “Can I use your phone?”