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. Von Joel nodded pleasantly, closed the door and came back. He took the cushions from the couch, put them on the floor and sat on them.
"One good thing," he said. "You don't smoke. McKinnes and his sidekick in there, they make me sick to my stomach. Fifty a day or more. Chain-smoking. McKinnes used to cough his guts up every morning. Man, I thought, why do you do it to yourself? Why? He's addicted to nicotine, of course—"
"You know the routine," Larry said briskly. "When I set the tape on, you will be recorded. Everything you say will be transcribed, all details fed—"
"I know the score." Von Joel
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. Von Joel nodded pleasantly, closed the door and came back. He took the cushions from the couch, put them on the floor and sat on them.
"One good thing," he said. "You don't smoke. McKinnes and his sidekick in there, they make me sick to my stomach. Fifty a day or more. Chain-smoking. McKinnes used to cough his guts up every morning. Man, I thought, why do you do it to yourself? Why? He's addicted to nicotine, of course—"
"You know the routine," Larry said briskly. "When I set the tape on, you will be recorded. Everything you say will be transcribed, all details fed—"
"I know the score." Von Joel
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