FRAMED

by Lynda La Plante

  Von Joel jammed his eyes shut, trying not to breathe the stink. “Dignity.” He hissed, “Sense of self …”

  He told himself firmly, over and over, just who he was, and that he didn’t belong in that place. He whispered his name and imagined his personhood protected by the force of his will.

  The addict knelt up suddenly. His chest heaved, his wide eyes cavernous as empty sockets in the oblique light. He vomited again, spewing whatever he had left in his guts across and down his own skeleton chest. Von Joel watched the bloated insects biting, sucking, watched as the ants streamed over the puke, and swallowed, turning away. The stench was horrific, and the heat had to be way over a hundred and ten degrees. His whole body was drenched, his three-hundred-pound shirt dripping, the waistband of his tailored handmade trousers sopping. He could feel the perspiration trickle down from his neck over his belly, drip from his hair, slithering down his neck. He rested his head back against the brick wall, and then out of the corner of his eye he saw the fat cockroach crawling and inching its way along the wall toward him. He shut his eyes and his hands clenched together as he felt the insect moving onto his shoulder, but he made no move to swipe it away. As he felt its clawlike feet easing up his neck, he began to wait, timing it. Now it was crawling to his chin, positioned just below his lower lip… . He waited, could feel the cockroach easing onto his lip, and he suddenly snapped his mouth open, biting the creature into two sections, then he spat it out. He had decided if he killed three, his time was up, but only on the condition he did not move a single muscle but his mouth … three: two more to go.

  Susan got back to the hotel at half-past eleven. By that time Larry was pacing the floor. He had come back after nine to find the boys tucked up in bed asleep and no clue as to where Susan might be. When she finally swept in, dressed up in her best, her makeup carefully overdone, it was evident she had drunk too much. She closed the door and leaned on it, grinning lopsidedly at Larry.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “You left the kids on their own!”

  “As I recall, you’re the one that said they would be fine, and anyway, they know to call down to the resident babysitter if they need anything.” Susan launched herself away from the door and struck a flamenco stance. “I’ve been to a nightclub.”

  “Who with?”

  “The waiter, the barman, and the swimming pool attendant.”

  Larry did a swift reading of the pang he felt when she told him that. He decided it was annoyance, not jealousy.

  Susan executed a couple of dance steps, then stopped, remembering something.

  “Got a great joke,” she said, giggling in advance. “There’s these two old Jewish tailors, Morris and Izzy, who retire to Miami. Well, they get themselves all tanned up, looking at the young, sexy beauties, right?”

  “You’re pissed as a newt.”

  “So, every night Morris scores, but poor Izzy never gets a second look. ‘What am I doing wrong, Morris?’ he says. ‘I got the Bermuda shorts, the tan, the cigar—for what? None of the girls want to know.’ Morris tells him,

  Izzy, this is what you do. Get two potatoes, slip them down your Bermudas. Okay? Just do what I say, and you can’t fail.’ So the next day Izzy gets two potatoes—”

  “Oh, come on, Susie—”

  “And that night he gets hold of his pal, he’s in a real rage, and he says, ‘Morris, I patrolled the beach all day with two King Edwards down my Bermudas, just like you told me to do, and all the girls did was laugh!’ Morris takes one look at him and he says, ‘Izzy, you’re supposed to put the potatoes down the front of your Bermudas!’ “

  Larry groaned. Susan began to stagger about, laughing.

  “He had them at the back, get it? Like, like he’d done something in his pants.”

  “I don’t think that’s funny,” Larry said, talking through her laughter. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The telephone rang. As Larry turned to answer it Susan pushed him, her face angry suddenly.

  “I’ve been waiting for you the entire vacation!” she said.

  Larry jammed the receiver to his ear.

  “Yeah, this is Jackson.” He listened, nodding, then his eyebrows went up a clear half-inch. “What? You’re kidding! Yeah, sure, I’ll be there. He didn’t last long, did he?”

  He put down the phone. “Got him!” he said, grabbing his jacket. “Eddie Myers wants to talk to us!”

  Susan was at the mirror, plastering cream on her face, a preliminary to removing her makeup.

  “Where are you going?” she asked coolly.

  “Prison,” Larry said, opening the door. “See you later —Dolores.”

  DI Falcon was covered in insect repellent, and Summers had to ease his shoes off, as his feet had swollen. They were waiting for Myers to be brought out of the holding cell. Larry banged in, sweating, his shirt clinging to him, but he was elated.

  “They’re bringing him up now… .”

  Summers tried to get his shoes back on as Falcon pushed the knot of his sodden tie up to his neck and slipped on his jacket. They could hear the footsteps in the stone corridor, and then they were confronted by Edward Myers. His hands were cuffed in front of him, his shirt was filthy, as were his trousers, and his face was dark with stubble. The two Spanish police officers stepped back to allow him to enter the room freely. He had the audacity to lean against the doorframe. He was not in any way angry and there was not a hint of bitterness. He just lolled, as if he had entered someone’s drawing room for a party. He looked from Summers to Falcon, and lastly to Lawrence Jackson, Detective Sergeant Lawrence Jackson, and then he gave that strange smile.

  “So, what’s the weather like in London then?”

  5

  By noon next day arrangements were being made for a triumphal return to London with the prisoners in tow. Larry, DI Falcon, and DC Summers accompanied Von Joel to his villa to supervise the packing for the trip.

  They had been there a little under an hour when Summers came down the main staircase to the hall and spoke to Falcon, who was studying a flight timetable.

  “He says he s entitled to take as much luggage as he wants—is that right?” Summers looked about him, peering into the richly furnished rooms off the hall as if somebody might be listening. “We’re checking everything, me and Sergeant Jackson, but he’s got his housekeeper packing for him. Is that okay?”

  “Any extra baggage weight,” Falcon said, “he pays. Just don’t let him near a phone. You unplugged all the extensions up there?”

  Summers nodded.

  “Right, then …” Falcon squinted at the timetable.

  “There’s a charter at six, I’ll check if they got seats available.”

  “Charter?”

  The voice came from the top of the stairs. They looked up. Von Joel was glaring at them from the landing. He was still handcuffed but had shaved and was wearing a long white flowing robe.

  “No way,” he boomed. “You won’t get me in one of those. I want a scheduled flight.”

  Falcon stared at him, anxious to exert some authority.

  “You go back any way we think fit, Myers. The British government’s paying for this.”

  “Let me call my travel agents,” Von Joel said. “Any extra expense is down to me. You can’t say I haven’t been cooperative, but I won’t get on one of those clapped-out junk heaps.”

  Falcon shrugged. “Fair enough. You got the number? I’ll call.”

  When the packing was finished Von Joel’s house staff carried the suitcases—Gucci, matching—down to the hall. Larry wandered out onto the balcony beyond the master bedroom. The view was impressive, taking in the entire length of the swimming pool, the sweep of the garden, the wooded land beyond, and the main gates off to the right. As Larry watched he saw Lola drive up in a white Porsche and walk in through the gates, past the policemen on duty there.

  Looking down, he saw DC Summers heading across the tiles toward the pool. He was wearing bathing trunks. He looked u
p and waved to Larry.

  “Coming in?” he shouted. “Falcon said it was okay.”

  Larry turned away, shaking his head. The curtain behind the balcony doors moved and Lola appeared. She leaned on the doorjamb, folding her arms and staring at him. He began to smile uncertainly.

  “You littie prick,” she said.

  Larry gulped softly. She turned and disappeared into the villa again. Down at the pool Larry saw the white length of DC Summers dive into the water.

  Falcon meanwhile was in the drawing room using the portable telephone, trying to make himself understood. Outside the door, on the balcony overlooking the stairs, Von Joel lay back in a chair with his feet on a heavy antique table, lowering his handcuffed wrists around Lola’s neck as she came to him, kissing him and making whimpering sounds against his cheek. Larry appeared and stood a short distance away, wary in case Lola turned the verbals on him again.

  “What?” Falcon came out of the drawing room, interrogating the telephone. “Can you speak in English, please? Eh? Today … Tonight? What? Jesus!”

  “I’ll do it,” Von Joel said. He took the receiver and spoke softly into it. “Julio? No, no hay ningun problema… . Cuatro, si, de primera close.” He laughed. “De acu-erdo, a mi cuenta.” He handed back the telephone to Falcon and looked at his watch. “Five o’clock flight. We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll have lunch served out on the patio.” He hooked his arms tightly around Lola and narrowed his eyes at Falcon. “Can I have fifteen minutes?”

  Falcon nodded. Von Joel got out of the chair. He and Lola made their way toward the bedroom. Falcon turned, hearing Larry Jackson’s heavy sigh.

  “You got a problem?”

  “If the Guv’nor got to hear about this …” Larry shook his head. “It’s like a frigging CarryOn movie. He’s up there shafting his girlfriend, Summers is out doing laps in the pool—”

  “Ease up, Larry,” Falcon grunted. “We got him, didn’t we?”

  But it hardly feels like it, Larry thought, watching the DI walk away.

  It was all so idiotically civilized. They were taking a villain, a right bad bastard, back to England to face the music, but first they were going to join him for lunch on the patio, just as soon as he’d finished giving his woman a seeing-to; after lunch—followed, no doubt 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 moment’s worry about the dogs, but then ignored it, knowing his housekeeper would take care of them. But he’d miss them, he loved his dogs. He breathed deeper, deeper, and his body felt good, strong, he clenched his buttocks, his thighs, could feel the muscles obey him, then he exhaled slowly, feeling the hard stomach muscles relaxing, contracting … his hands remained folded on his lap, no indication that his entire body was working, moving, exercising, perfecting the control he took such pleasure in achieving.

  f

  Lola sobbed, and Charlotte eventually had to get tetchy with her. They had to pack and be ready and waiting, as Philip wanted; they would be on the next flight tomorrow, but Lola could not stop weeping, and eventually Charlotte wrapped her arms around her. “We’ll be there for him, we’ll be there … we have to contact his lawyer, arrange for him to be waiting in London. Lola … don’t cry, Lola!”

  Lola hiccuped and bit her lips, nodding in confirmation. They must do as Philip had instructed. She crossed to the balcony and watched the two dogs below. They wandered around the gates and then sat, their heads craning forward, looking for their master, waiting for him.

  “He will be all right, won’t he?” Lola whispered.

  Charlotte nodded from the balcony window, from which they could see the dogs waiting patiently. “Yes, he’ll come back; he’s our magic man, Lola, nobody can take Philip away from us… .” They seemed so childlike, and in some ways they resembled the two waiting dogs, their eyes looking, pleading, to the high barred gates, willing them to open, willing the past hours to be a nightmare from which they would wake. Without their magic man the villa was deathly quiet, without him they were at a loss; they both loved him, they both needed him, he was the center of their world; he wasn’t Eddie Myers, they didn’t know him, had never known him, they only knew the man they worshiped, Philip Von Joel, their magician.


  f

  Myers was taken from the plane to a waiting patrol car, a blanket covering his head, and not until the car was moving out of the airport was the blanket removed. He was handcuffed to a uniformed officer and accompanied by one more driver and a plainclothes detective who had not said one word.

  Larry, Falcon, and Co. were somewhat disappointed, as they had to settle all the paperwork at the airport and were trailing behind in a patrol car, the convoy with Myers aboard way ahead. Larry was pissed off; no one had even said one word of congratulations, it was as if they were the three stooges.

  Myers remained as silent as the men seated in the car. Ahead was a patrol car, behind another, their blue lights flashing, sirens blasting as they screamed across London. It was raining, it was cold, and the streets and buildings were as gray as he remembered, if not worse. The night was gray, the people they passed were gray, the flashes of brilliantly lit billboards and advertisements gave splashes of color to the grayness. Myers’s face was half in shadow, the blue lights gave his dark features an almost eerie quality. The plainclothes detective half turned around, saying quietly that as soon as they reached St. John’s Row station he wanted Myers’s head covered up. Myers paid no attention, and it gave the officer a moment to take a good look at him. He was unnervingly still, very composed, staring out the window of the fast-moving car.

  They reached St. John’s Row police station shortly after nine o’clock. A group of Special Branch officers formed a flinty-eyed escort as Myers entered the station handcuffed between two uniformed constables, his head covered with a gray blanket. Larry, DI Falcon, and DC Summers, who had traveled behind in an unmarked patrol car, unpacked their luggage from the trunk and straggled into the station, shivering, looking slightly lost.

  Myers was marched to the first floor, where he was fingerprinted and photographed. People from other departments stuck their heads into the room, keen to see the root cause of so much sudden upheaval. Myers conducted himself calmly even though there was haste and a certain amount of roughness attending the procedures. No time was wasted at any stage. It was a major priority to have the prisoner documented, charged, and safely locked up as quickly as possible. More and more people were finding some excuse to pass through, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the famous Edward Myers. There were a few throwaway remarks, mundane, stupid, fatuous—“That suntan won’t last, Eddie!”—but throughout Myers remained aloof and impassive, watching with distaste the black ink rolled over his fingertips. He could see the officer’s head shaking as he pressed each print down onto the sheets. He was offered a damp towel to wipe the ink off. He sat staring ahead as the mug shots were taken, right side, left side, full face. The whispering and murmurs continued as he asked if he could take a leak, make his phone call. No one replied and he was asked to stand and move away from the photographer. As he stood he was head and shoulders taller than most of the men ! around him.