“Micro celebs,” I heard someone say, and I looked around and recognized a few actors. Isobel came over to me and kissed me and pointed out some politicians, a couple of rock stars, a famous chef, some writers. I never heard of any of them except for David Bowie and Michael Caine. No one seemed to notice the way the wind suddenly came up strong or the river lapped the deck outside.
There was food: little crunchy birds and spicy polenta, hot breads, salsas. Jack got me by the elbow and shoved a plate into my hand, and we loaded up and sat down at one of the tables in the center of the restaurant. The band, which was really good, played “Moonlight in Vermont” and “Summertime”, and people ate, drank and danced.
Afterwards, waiters appeared with silver trays heaped up with little chocolate houses. People scooped them up and munched the houses and I watched and listened the way you’d watch a circus, all three rings going at the same time: the light and shadow on the dance floor and couples dancing; a redheaded man in a loud checked suit and big black glasses surrounded by serious men in suits, a security man with a finger in his ear near by; a pack of druggy models with smudged eyes; the oldest was maybe sixteen. The semi-famous huddled together.
And Lily. On the other side of the room, in a tight black velvet pants suit. She looked great. I looked again. She shrugged and pointed to her leg, which was free of the velcro and bandages, and she smiled mournfully and waved, and I looked down at my glass, then looked up and raised it in her direction. But a guy in a tux pulled her on to the dance floor.
I danced with Isobel, and she said, “You OK?”
“I’m OK.”
“You want to talk about Pru?”
“Not tonight.”
Iz nodded. “So how do we look through your eyes? What’s it like for you?”
“Like being an alien.”
“Dance with Lily,” she said.
I went back to Jack’s table. People came and went, sat for a while, got up to dance, moved around, smoked. “We closed Indonesia,” someone said. “We did. It was the last great party before the end, then they closed the country.” The conversations were the same you heard in New York, only the inflexion and the details were different, the barbs more vicious, the sarcasm fiercer, the talk more political.
Snatches of talk reached me: Russian fascists at Austrian spas, the price of a villa in Tuscany for the summer – or was it a village?
Models and party girls, men in khakis and tux jackets, three hundred people stuffed themselves with chocolate houses now. A handsome man in a silk suit and black silk shirt sat down at our table, ate mashed potatoes and talked French to the woman next to him. They covered Japanese Fusion chefs, varieties of Champagne and if there really was what one of them called “anti-Semiticism”.
Jack reached out as a waiter passed, pulled a fresh glass off his tray and muttered to me, “I’ve just had a mine shaft into the rest of the world, man, you know, we’re in here and everyone else is out there in the howling void, and I wonder if I should be doing something about it, but it doesn’t matter so I won’t bother.” Jack was drunk. When he was drunk the mild speech impediment disappeared and the chip fell off his shoulder; charm was Jack Cotton’s middle name.
Then there was a drum roll.
On the outside deck, bright blue and gold cloth covered a hulking shape. Phillip Frye stood on a chair, and people gathered. The wind blew harder now off the river, and people clutched at their clothes. The women’s tiny skirts blew up; you could see a lot of great ass.
Frye toasted Pru Vane’s memory and everyone murmured politely and shifted their feet. Then Frye spoke about the Life Bubble and how it would withstand even this wind, and someone said the word “Titanic” and we all laughed.
Two of the girls from Frye’s office pulled the gold and blue cloth off, the Bubble was revealed and everyone clapped and whistled. Then Frye introduced his wife.
“Shashi Frye,” Isobel Cleary said in my ear. “She’s a bloody sight too good for him.”
Mrs Frye, who had designed the Life Bubble, smiled. Cameras flashed. The conversation turned to the homeless and Ethiopia, and how much good Phillip and Shashi did, how the Bubble would change things; it was the beginning of a new age, a proper start-up for the millennium, someone said. It was terrific, it looked good, it was a testament to modern Britain, a new age of great design, and they circled the thing and ran their hands over the surface, congratulated Phil, drank his Champagne.
Shashi Frye moved gracefully around the windy deck, the white dress blowing.
I leaned over the front of the boat alongside Jack. In front of us was the row of massive silver hoods I’d seen from the road. It was foggy then. Now, the Thames Barrier gleamed under the stars and looked beautiful, mysterious, glamorous, London’s first great monument if you came in by sea.
A few hundred yards from the Barrier, the barge turned slowly. Clouds moved across the sky. A spatter of rain tinkled on the glass walls.
The rain came down harder. On the deck, people picked up their glasses and ran inside. The Bubble shivered. Two waiters grabbed at it, but a huge gust of wind came down the river, and the Bubble pulled loose from the ropes that held it to the deck. More waiters hurriedly set down their trays and reached for it. Frye himself grabbed it. Jack ran to help.
It was too late.
The Life Bubble sailed off the deck and into the river. We stood in the rain and watched it float away.
By midnight we were almost back at the wharf; you could feel the barge vibrate. The disaster with the Bubble put an edge on things, people were excited and nervous; they got drunker.
I was at the bar. Without looking, I suddenly knew Lily was beside me. I saw her reflection next to mine in the mirror, but I knew she was there before I looked. I could smell her. She put her arm around my shoulders.
I said, “How’s the foot?”
“I’m fine. We’re all such event freaks.” She leaned closer and giggled. “I’m sorry but I loved it when the Bubble blew into the water, I can’t help it.” She put her face against mine. She pulled my head around and kissed me hard. Said, “Do you want me to introduce you? I’ll introduce you. Come on. Who do you want to meet?” Lily had her arms around my neck.
I said, “Let’s just dance.”
The band played “Stormy Weather” and I held on to Lily on the crowded dance floor and we laughed at the music. We danced for a long time, not talking at all. The band finished “Autumn Leaves” and started another tune.
I didn’t plan on feeling happy as soon as I saw her, but I felt happy. I had planned on making it tougher for her; Lily makes me nuts, but without her I feel like my oxygen’s running on low. On empty.
Whatever she’d done, however she knew Pascoe or Frye, who she’d been before I met her, right now I didn’t care. Didn’t care at all; it’s not at all rational, this stuff; it’s just how things are.
She said in my ear, “What’s this song called?”
Over Lily’s shoulder I saw Phillip Frye watching us. His expression was vacant. He was a pissed-off guy and I didn’t think it was just the Bubble. “Why is Frye watching us?”
“Is he watching?”
“He looks mad as hell. His Bubble went overboard so he’s pissed.”
“Who’s with him?”
“Russian babe in Versace.” I moved us around so she could see for herself.
Lily looked over my shoulder. She grew less mellow. She said, “Please, can we go home? Artie?”
“Yes.”
She put her chin on my shoulder and said again, “And tell me what it’s called.”
“What?”
“The song.”
We moved towards the door, and I said, “The song is called ‘Love and the Weather’.”
33
“Tommy’s dead. He’s dead, Lily.”
“I heard you, Frankie. I’m sorry.”
“What’s his name? I need a name.”
“Whose name?”
“The boyfriend. Your cop.
Tell me.”
“What on earth for?”
“Help me here, Lily, please, I’ve never asked you for anything. Not for a very long time. I need someone. I’m alone. Tell me what his name is.”
“His name’s Artie Cohen.”
“Thank you.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Tommy was murdered.”
“Christ, Frankie. Jesus Christ.”
“They found him in the swimming pool downstairs in our building. He’s dead. They tried to cut his head off.”
“I’m sorry. But leave Artie be, OK? Just leave Artie out of this, you understand? Please. You’ve done enough damage for one lifetime. Frankie?”
The stilted conversation ended. The line went dead.
In the living room of the houseboat where we sat on the floor, Lily switched off her tape recorder. “So now you know.”
“You knew her as Frankie?”
“I knew her as Frankie.”
“You taped her?”
“I guess it’s habit. I was working, the tape recorder was there, I heard trouble coming down the phone, I pressed Record. I hadn’t heard from Frankie Pascoe in several years. She was trouble.”
“What kind?”
“Booze. Sex. She was a sexual compulsive, some doctor told Tommy. Femme fatale. Killed with a touch.”
“Killed?”
“Metaphorically.”
“It wasn’t just accidental me being on the case?”
“No. I tried to stop her. I couldn’t. By the time you told me you were on it, it was too late. Frankie had that kind of clout. She knew who to call. She knew how to press the buttons that made Sonny Lippert put you on the case. She would have figured she could control you because there was a relationship with me.” Lily looked at me. “Did she control you?”
I didn’t answer. I said, “Sonny didn’t fucking tell me.”
“He wouldn’t necessarily know,” she said. “God, I am sorry. I should have told you. I got scared and ran.”
I put my arms around her. “Scared of what?”
She said, “My own fucked-up past. Do you want a drink? I want a drink.” She found a bottle of Scotch and poured some in a glass. “I know I’ve made you crazy, and I’m sorry, but I need you.”
Outside, the rain that had started earlier pelted the roof. But it was warm inside. Safe. I held her tighter. “It’s OK.”
“I’m scared. Someone killed Pru Vane. Phillip’s PR woman.”
“I met Pru.”
“Met?”
“No one’s going to touch you.”
“Pru knew about Phillip’s business. So do I.”
“You want to tell me?”
“I wanted to tell you all along, but I was afraid.”
Lily took her drink and leaned against me. “It’s not always that easy, you know, when you get caught up in work.” She was weeping now; I made her drink the Scotch.
“Where’s Beth?”
“She’s all right. She’s still in the country with the Cleary kids and their aunt. I’m going to get her tomorrow, but she’s OK. She’s OK.” She repeated it, like a mantra.
I said, “Are you sure?”
Lily sat up and pushed me away. “I take care of her, I really do.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I was glad the minute I saw you.”
“I figured you didn’t want me here. I thought you had a different life in London.”
“I did, though. Want you. I almost always do.” She looked up from her glass. “I wanted you here because I was frightened, but I was afraid to say anything, to mention Phillip’s name. I knew something was wrong with his project. I knew but I couldn’t believe it. I figured I’d play along.” She was shaking. “I got over him a long time ago, just like I told you, long long ago. I’m drunk, Artie, I was drunk last night, I’ve had too much to drink and too many pills because my foot hurt, and I want more. I’m telling you the truth, you know? I’ll quit the Scotch. Just give me some of that wine? The red. Thanks.”
She drank nervously and scratched her leg. Lily got up, looked out the window, made sure the door to the deck was locked. “Give me a cigarette.”
I found a pack, and she pushed her hair off her face, sat down, this time in an armchair opposite me, lit up and started talking again.
“I was in the Peace Corps. I was in Ethiopia, in the middle of the country, in a region named Asela, they call it the Bread Basket of Africa. That was OK. It was a shithole, but it was some kind of town, there was a market, there was a kind of motel, even if the bathrooms had actual holes in the wall. And the countryside was gorgeous, like New Mexico, you know, you remember the high desert, how it goes gold and green in the fall?
“That was OK. But after some indoctrination crap, they moved three of us south to a village near a lake. It’s very empty there, real bush. No maps, no roads, lakes full of hippos, scrubby bush, and whole tribes who live on islands in the lake. It was the kids I saw first, each one had a kayak for coming to school on our side of the lake. We were supposed to help these people, you know, but we were kids ourselves. American kids. We didn’t know shit.
“I was out there on the edge of the world, literally, and I thought I’d never make it, I’d never get through two years. I lay awake all night listening to wild dogs and seeing my mother’s face all pursed up and sour with disappointment in me, my father so smug and knowing. He said I’d never cut the mustard when it mattered.
“And Phillip shows up. Literally. A big mud-spattered Land Rover comes bouncing over the hill, like a tank, down the embankment, we’re in these tukuls, these mud huts, me and two other hopeless kids, and we’re reading instructions in a book on how to build a well, getting ready to screw up these poor villagers, doing more harm than good, and there he is. I swear to God, the whole works right down to the khaki bush jacket. Tall, handsome, ruddy face, like something out of a history book, an old-fashioned face, with a great accent, he’s a documentary film-maker, or was back then, but with private money, so he does what he wants. Also, he wore a hat.”
“A hat.”
“Yeah, a hat. Like Bogart. Like Indiana Jones, only there wasn’t any Indiana Jones yet, so he was an original.”
“You fell for his hat?”
“Yeah, I did.” Lily was rueful and ironic, but also wistful, caught up in the romance of her own story. She went on. “And he says, come back to my camp, and we go and he’s got a generator hooked up and a canvas shower and camp chairs and a fridge, very Out of Africa. I’d been reading Isaak Dinesen, I’m full of, you know, me woman, this Africa. Except I didn’t have the guy. Then he opens the refrigerator and it’s completely jammed with Veuve Clicquot. I swear to God. In the middle of the bush.”
“So you took up with him.”
“And the Champagne and the camp, and the fact that he rescued me and showed me how to dig a well and how to survive in Africa. By the time I left I could do it, I could manage. I did my whole stint in the Peace Corps and came off looking great. You know what, Artie? Even my father was impressed. Stringy, self-righteous son-of-a-bitch that he was.”
“You never talk about your father.”
“He was a lapsed Catholic who replaced the church with left-wing causes. The worst kind of zealous bastard, and even he was impressed by Phillip. He used to think I was a spoiled brat without any politics, he figured every guy I dated was an imperialist running dog. Phil Frye won him over. I didn’t mention the Champagne to Daddy, of course. So I fell for Phil, and eventually I came to London with him.” She pushed her hair off her face. “We got married.”
“You stayed with him a long time?”
“Even after we split up, yes. He had a way.”
“What kind of way?”
Lily’s face was slick with pale sweat now, and she said, “Whenever I shook free of him, he got to me. He was good at it.”
“How did he get to you?”
“He said he needed me. I told you once. You do
n’t remember.” She flushed, turned away again and pressed her face to the window as if to cool it down.
I reached over and took Lily’s hand. My pulse was racing. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over. I love you. It’s OK.”
“It isn’t over. We started this, we might as well finish,” she said and tried to laugh. “I think Phillip’s whole set-up here is shitty.”
“How?”
“I’m not sure, I just know.”
“You knew this when you came to London?”
“I suspected as soon as I got here. He called and offered me a job doing a documentary on his new project. Tommy had just died. Frankie got your name out of me, you were on the case, I hated the way everything was getting dragged down in this. I figured I’d get out of town for a few days. As soon as I got here, I knew it was fishy. I started poking around. Artie?”
“What, sweetheart?”
“I wasn’t suckered by Phillip, you know. I had to find out for myself, but I knew. He’s been using cheesy building materials, putting shelters on bad land by the river. That’s why the men died out there. He takes money from crooks. I couldn’t even tell Isobel.” She saw me pick up the phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jack Cotton. I want to leave a message where we are.”
She smiled. “Jack’s a nice man. He tried to cheer me up. I met Jack, you know, but nothing happened. Between us, I mean.”
I hung up the phone. “I don’t care. I love you.”
“Can you stay with me?”
I kissed her. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Can you lock the windows, please? Are they locked? And check the back door, will you? The decks too, OK? This place makes me nuts. Warren Pascoe’s dead, they killed Pru. Am I next, Artie? Am I on the list?”
I held on to her. “You knew Warren?”
“I met him once.”
“It looked like a simple hit.”
“You think it was simple, first Tommy, then Warren and Pru? They wanted Warren’s warehouse. He wouldn’t budge. I’m guessing Phillip threatened to expose him. There were more dead bodies than anyone knew. Warren was a collector! He was a contentious old bastard, and talented. I thought the sculptures were beautiful. Warren was a freakshow but he didn’t deserve to die. I think Phillip knows I’m on to him. I think Pru opened her big mouth and someone shut it up for her. Sometimes I think someone’s watching me and this bloody houseboat makes me crazy.”
Bloody London Page 28